


Your Mess is Mine

by monroeslittle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, I Don't Even Know, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 07:36:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 42,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3887743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monroeslittle/pseuds/monroeslittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They left soon after, deciding they needed drinks to celebrate Clarke’s new, awesome ability to hit a ball with a bat. But before they went, Clarke threw an arm around Bellamy’s shoulders, forcing him to duck a little so that she could press her check to his, and snap a picture. She put it up on Instagram, labeling it <em>suck it, Octavia!</em> Octavia liked the photo about eight seconds later.</p><p>“I’m glad she’s hard at work,” Bellamy said. </p><p>On the T, Clarke made it the background on her phone. It was a really good photo. </p><p>modern AU, Clarke grows up with Octavia, and Octavia's brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Mess is Mine

**Author's Note:**

> This might've gotten away from me a little bit. There isn't really a coherent plot besides, you know, life. Seriously. If you make it all the way through to the end, I'll be very impressed with you. Also, they kind of act like they’re a few years out of college during the scenes when they’re in college, and I knew it was happening while I wrote it but didn’t have the patience to restructure the whole damn thing. Just pretend they’re super mature for their age, and fake IDs are totally foolproof, y/y?
> 
> Also, also, title/lyrics are from Vance Joy's "Mess is Mine." :)

_You're the reason that I feel so strong,_  
_The reason that I'm hanging on._  
_You know you gave me all the time,_  
_Or did I give you all of mine?_

 ---

They moved from the city when Clarke was seven, packing up everything in a week.

Her grandfather was sick, and her mother wanted to be closer to him.

She wore her blue plaid dress on her very first day at school, with her shiny white shoes, and with the socks from her aunt with the lace on the edge. Her mother put her hair in two neat, even braids, and her daddy walked her to the end of the street, holding her hand while they waited for the bus.

She hoped she was going to make a friend.

But it was September, and you were supposed to pick your friends in August.

There was reading in the morning, and art before recess before lunch. Clarke started to draw a cat during art. She wanted it to be orange like her grandfather’s cat, but with a fluffy tail like the cat that used to sit in front of the window of their apartment in Boston.

“I like cats, too,” said a girl, sitting at the desk across from Clarke’s.

Her nails were painted like the rainbow with a different bright, pretty color on each.

It turned out that her name was Octavia, and she wanted to be a veterinarian, and she lost a tooth the night before. She talked a lot. Clarke liked her. Mrs. Bessel dismissed the class for recess, and Octavia grabbed Clarke by the hand, dragging her to the playground.

“You’re my friend,” Octavia said.

“Okay,” Clarke said.

Three days later, Octavia invited Clarke to come to her house after school.

Clarke’s mother talked to Octavia’s mother on the phone, and she agreed, writing Clarke a note that gave her permission to take the bus to Octavia’s on Thursday. They shared a seat on the bus, holding hands, and talked about what they were going to do at Octavia’s.

Her neighborhood wasn’t like Clarke’s. It was in the woods, and the road was dirt.

There wasn’t a pool, or a lodge.

Instead, there was a lake with a _duck,_ and Octavia claimed there was a creek, too, and that her brother was building her a giant tree house in the woods behind their house.

The houses were smaller, darker. Her house was far, far back in the trees.

They walked up the path to her house, and saw a toilet in the yard with flowers in the pot, making Clarke giggle. Inside, the house smelled like her grandfather’s; her mother wrinkled her nose at the way that her grandfather’s smelled, but Clarke liked the smell.

She liked everything about Octavia’s house.

Her room was the attic, and it was _huge_. The walls were painted a bright, bright blue, and the ceiling was slanted, and decorated with sparkling, glow-in-the dark stars that were arranged like constellations. There was a trunk next to her bed, and Octavia was eager to show Clarke the treasures within: lipstick and jewelry and perfume.

They put on the jewelry, and rubbed the perfume into their wrists.

“What about the lipstick?” Clarke asked.

Octavia ginned, and started to shout for her brother. “Bellamy! Bellamy! _Bellamy_!”

He pounded his way up the stairs. “What?” he asked, exasperated. His gaze flickered to Clarke. She flushed. He was thirteen, and he was supposed to look after them until Octavia’s mother got off work. Now he was mad at them, and it hadn’t been an hour yet.

Clarke was ready to apologize, but Octavia wasn’t.

“I want Red Velvet,” Octavia said, cheerful, “and Clarke wants Candy Pink.”

He sighed, and reached for the lipstick.

Clarke was as still as a statue when he took her face by the chin, putting the lipstick on her lips. She looked at herself in the mirror after, starting to giggle at the sight of the bright pink lipstick. “Bellamy’s good,” Octavia agreed. “I always mess it up, and get it on my teeth and stuff.”

They made faces at the mirror, and tried to touch their tongues to their noses.

“Now what?” Clarke asked.

Octavia grabbed Clarke by the hand, starting for the stairs.

They went into the backyard, and into the woods, taking off their shoes, stripping off their socks, and wading across the creek to get to the trees that were the best to climb. They decided to be cats with the ability to talk, and to fly, and with secret magic powers.

They decided to follow the creek to their special, secret fortress.

It was Clarke’s idea to imagine that the creek was a deep, raging river; they hopped from stone to stone, playing that a step in the creek meant you drowned, meowing to signal that a dog was on their trail, and laughing when they broke into a run to escape the dog.

They were caught in the rain when it started to storm, and were soaked in seconds.

But it was fun, racing through the rain to reach the house as fast as possible.

Bellamy was ready, meeting them at the back of the house with towels. He ushered them into the kitchen, starting to lecture them before he stopped, narrowed his eyes at Octavia’s neck, and scowled. That was when they were forced to strip off their soaked, muddy clothes, giggling while Bellamy searched them for ticks.

They meowed when he asked how they managed to get ticks on their _stomachs_.

He sent them to change into warm, dry clothes, ignoring Octavia’s pleas for a snack. But when they were dressed, they returned to the kitchen to find that he’d put scoops of ice cream in between cookies, making an ice cream-filled, cookie sandwich for each of them.

“You’re the best,” Octavia said.

Bellamy flicked a finger against her temple, and she slapped at his hand.

Clarke’s daddy came to pick her up at seven, and he stared at her with her damp, frizzy hair, messily braided and tied with a ribbon that belonged to Octavia, in pajamas that belonged to Octavia, too, with smeared pink lipstick clinging to the corners of her mouth. He laughed.

She went to Octavia’s after school a lot after that.

The alternative was to go to her grandfather’s until her parents got off work. She loved her grandfather, but he slept a lot, and his nurse yelled at Clarke when Clarke talked while she was watching her soaps. It was boring. It was never, ever boring at Octavia’s.

They played in the woods, and danced to the records that belonged to Octavia’s mother.

Octavia convinced Bellamy to play with them once in a while, too.

He chased them around the yard with a Super Soaker, and refused to go easy on them at Mario Kart. They went to the tracks, lining up pennies on the rails for the train to crush. It snowed in December, and he built them a fort with the snow that he shoveled off the driveway. Then he attacked the fort as soon as they crawled in, forcing them to pummel him with snowballs, and fight their way to freedom.

They watched hockey with him, yelling at the TV when he yelled at the TV.

Summer came, and Clarke started to spend day after day at the lake near Octavia’s.

They pestered Bellamy when they were bored, saying they wanted to learn to fish. He showed them how to throw in a line, what to do when a fish caught. Octavia was impatient, running off to get a snack before long, but Clarke was good, and Bellamy gave her a high five after she reeled in a fish.

In July, Clarke went to the city with her father to visit her aunt.

It was fun to see Wells, and to go to fancy, grown up restaurants with his family in silky pink dresses that her aunt bought her. They went to Mike’s Pastry, and to see Cinderella at the Boston Opera House, and they had a picnic at Harvard, too; her daddy told her about his time at the school, and how much fun Clarke was going to have when she went.

She loved every single moment in the city, but she was happy to go home.

To see her mother, and to see Octavia.

She loved Octavia.

Octavia was loud, and bossy, and got in trouble a lot at school for shouting at people, and for pushing their classmates. Clarke was quiet, but she was bossy, too, and she pushed mean, dumb Sterling for Octavia when he told her that nobody liked her, ‘cause she liked her, and she was Octavia’s pinky sworn, best friend for life.

\---

The summer that she turned eleven, Octavia hosted a birthday slumber party. They sang karaoke on her brand new machine, and watched movies in their pajama, snacking on cake, cookies, and candy until they were high on sugar, and wanted to play Truth or Dare.

Monroe ate a bite from a stick of butter, and Mel revealed her crush on Sterling.

Lilly screamed a string of swears at the top of her lungs.

Octavia was forced to call a completely random number, confess her love to the guy who answered, and hang up immediately, which made their group breathless with laughter, and Fox admitted to them that, yes, she used to kiss her Ricky Martin poster for practice.

“Clarke,” Fox said.

It figured that Bellamy was going to amble into the kitchen at that moment.

“Dare,” Clarke said.

Fox grinned, leaning in to whisper. “I dare you to kiss Octavia’s brother on the lips.”

The group broke into gasps, but Clarke rolled her eyes. “That’s easy,” she said.

Bellamy was seventeen, and he was super, super cute with his dark hair slicked back, and that grin that made you melt. He was _cool_ , too, in his black leather jacket; he rode a motorcycle, and fixed up cars for a part time job rather than work at a lame grocery store like Monroe’s brother.

But every single time he opened his big, stupid mouth, Clarke remembered that he was Octavia’s brother, and Octavia’s brother was an idiot. His charm was lost on her.

“Prove it,” Monroe said.

Clarke pushed up to her feet, ignoring the giggles at her back. “Bellamy!”

He turned to her, holding a beer. “What’s up, Clarke?”

She grabbed his shoulders, standing on her tiptoes, and smacked a kiss to his mouth.

It wasn’t until she dropped to her heels that she saw the shock on his face, and saw it turn to amusement. She flushed, patting at his chest before spinning away from him. She rushed to rejoin her friends, and her cheeks were on fire, but she grinned at their laughter.

She gave Monroe a proud, satisfied _told you_ look, and the game went on.

It took Clarke a minute to gather the courage to sneak a peak towards the kitchen, only to see that Bellamy was gone. She bit her lip, looking at her lap. It was her very first kiss.

Octavia elbowed Clarke. “Gross,” she whispered. Clarke elbowed Octavia, and Octavia laughed.

They gave up on the game soon after, deciding to watch another movie, and that was the end of the night. There were pancakes for breakfast in the morning, and Octavia gave them pink gift bags with candy, mixed CDs, and silver, dangly necklaces. The bags were labeled with their names.

“That was to be sure that you got the one with the really good stuff,” Octavia whispered.

Clarke grinned, and slipped on her bracelet.

Bellamy slept through the morning, wandering into the kitchen around noon. Everyone was gone by then except, of course, for Clarke, sitting at the table next to Octavia.

“Octavia.” He nodded at his sister, and looked at Clarke. “Casanova.”

“It was for a _dare_ ,” Clarke said.

He grinned, and stole a piece of bacon off her plate while she insisted hotly that it _was_.

\---

She knew she wasn’t supposed to, but Clarke liked school. Her teachers loved her, and she played the flute in band, and she was happy with her grades, with her friends.

In the tenth grade, she got her first real kiss.

It was at a party that Lilly threw when her parents were away. It seemed like there was a party at somebody’s every single week, and Octavia wanted to go to that party every single week. Clarke learned to shotgun a beer at a party, shared a joint with Octavia once.

Octavia wasn’t at this party, though; she was grounded for a week.

Clarke was on her own, and she was tipsy, making it difficult to pump the keg. Lucy came up next to her, laughed softly at Clarke, and filled her cup for her. Clarke remembered talking on the deck, and mocking their other, drunker friends, and how Lucy leaned in first, and she tasted like chapstick.

Lucy ignored Clarke at school on Monday, and every day after.

Clarke decided to keep the kiss a secret. She didn’t want Octavia to ignore her, too.

\---

It wasn’t long after that Octavia got her first real kiss, too, under the bleachers at a home football game.

She was totally, completely besotted with him.

But he wanted noting to do with her when she tried to talk to him at school.

It wasn’t hard for Clarke to wrangle the reason from him. Octavia was ready to murder her brother when Clarke told her that Bellamy cornered Atom at the arcade where he worked, dragged him into a bathroom, and gave him a swirly for daring to touch Octavia.

Bellamy lived in the city, working at an auto body shop.

But he came to town to check in on his mother a lot, and to check in on Octavia. He was in town right now to clean the gutters on the house, and they weren’t able to figure out how he’d learned about Atom, but he had, and he’d given the poor, innocent guy a swirly.

“He’s an asshole,” Octavia ranted, “an immature, misogynistic _asshole_.”

Clarke wasn’t about to argue with her.

Octavia gave up on her rant at last, reaching for the phone.

She was going to call Atom. Again.

Clarke went to the kitchen for a snack, coming face to face with Bellamy. It figured that he wouldn’t be in hiding, that he wouldn’t be ashamed about what’d he done. She eyed him. She hadn’t seen him in a while. His hair was longer than usual, falling into his eyes, and there was a shadow of a beard on his face.

He smelled like cigarettes, and she suspected that he went through pack a day.

Aurora smoked, meaning the house always smelled faintly like cigarettes.

But the smell rolled off him in waves, and she noticed a cigarette behind his ear.

“Hi, Bell,” she said.

He licked mayo off his thumb, and glanced at her. “‘Sup, Clarke.”

She opened the pantry, frowning at her options until she noticed the chips on the counter. Aurora got them with garlic especially for Clarke. “Toss me the chips.” He did, and she sat at the island. “So. How are things with you?” she asked. “Given anybody a swirly this week?”

He took a bite of his sandwich. “He needed a swirly.”

She rolled her eyes. “Atom might be the sweetest, most innocent guy in the world.”

“You think that, but you’re wrong. He was a butthole.”

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“I’m being sensitive for your youthful, impressionable ears,” he added.

She threw a chip at him, but he dodged it easily, grinning at her with lettuce in his teeth, and she sighed, hopping to her feet to root through the fridge. She was in the mood for more than chips, but she didn’t know for what. “Octavia claims that she’s never going to talk to you again,” she said. “If I were her, I wouldn’t.”

“She’ll get over it,” Bellamy said.

There was nothing in the fridge, and Clarke grabbed a soda. “You hope.”

“She might not see it now, but she will, and you will, too. Guys are buttholes. I know, Clarke. I’m a guy. You’ll see.” He turned to pull mint ice cream from the freezer, grabbing cookies from the pantry, and pointed a finger at her. “Give it time. You’ll see.”

She stole a cookie while he fetched a spoon. “I might not,” she said, hesitant.

He glanced at her.

“I think I like girls.”

He blinked. “Don’t think that lets you off the hook.”

“What?”

“Girls can be manipulative little motherfuckers, too.”

She snorted, and looked at the counter to taper her smile. “If that’s you being sensitive for my youthful, impressionable ears, I don’t think you should be allowed near children.”

“I’m great with children.”

“Is that so?”

He shoved a cookie into his mouth. “I’m a nurturer, Clarke.”

“You’re a nurturer,” she repeated.

“It means I’m great at nurturing,” he said, “and I am. I’m a fucking champ at nurturing.” He pushed a plate pointedly in front of her, and she dropped her gaze, suppressing a smile when she saw that he’d made her an ice cream cookie sandwich. “You’re welcome,” he added.

She looked up, but he was on his way to the door. “I’m still mad at you,” she called.

His back was to her, but he lifted a hand to wave lazily at her in acknowledgement, pulling his phone from his pocket, taking the cigarette from behind his ear, and disappearing onto the porch. She grinned at the counter for a moment before she picked up her plate, returning to Octavia’s room with her snack in tow.

“I’m going to punch him in the dick so hard that he chokes on his nuts.”

“Well, that’s a really beautiful picture you've painted for me. It’s like I’m friends with Norman Rockwell.”

\--- 

Octavia refused to forgive her brother for weeks, but she was forced to in November. 

It was dark out, and the man in the SUV was drunk. 

Clarke was at Octavia’s when the police knocked on the door with the news. Bellamy drove in from the city, and he burst into the house to find them on the floor of the kitchen. Octavia continued to sob into Clarke’s arms when her brother sank to his knees, and reached for her. 

His eyes were glassy with tears, and Clarke shut her eyes to ward off her tears. 

But it wasn’t the same, was it? It wasn’t her mother, and she meant to rise to her feet, to leave them to their grief. She felt suddenly like an intruder. But she wasn’t able to. Bellamy sat against the cabinets, holding Octavia to his chest, and his arm seemed to slip automatically around Clarke. 

She hiccoughed, and stayed. 

The weeks that followed were the worst in their lives. 

Octavia was a mess, snapping at everyone, and starting a fight at school that landed her in detention when she broke a boy’s nose. But the principal was lenient, and Clarke spent every single night in Octavia’s bed, and Bellamy was there, making breakfast, lunch, and dinner, dealing with everything that needed to be dealt with.

It was up to him to plan the funeral, and to deal with everything that came after. 

Clarke offered to go through the bills with him, but he snapped that he was capable. 

She decided to bake, trying to be useful. 

He brought the cookies up to Octavia’s room that night, sitting at Octavia’s desk while Clarke painted Octavia’s toenails on the bed, and she was glad to see him eat. He was short on sleep, and he hadn’t eaten properly in days. The cookies were something at least. 

He took her up on her offer to help after that.

The bill from the hospital was astronomical. “You think if they’re going to charge us thousands of dollars,” Bellamy growled, “they could’ve at least fucking _saved her life_.” 

Clarke was quiet, thinking about the way that he glared at her mother at the funeral. 

In the end, they sold the house to pay off the debts. 

Bellamy sold his motorcycle, too, starting to drive Aurora’s old, worthless truck. 

He quit his job in the city, finding an apartment for them in town. It was cramped, and Clarke’s mother was concerned about the safety of the location. But on the salary of a janitor at the elementary school, it was the best that Bellamy could afford. It was enough. 

They moved in on a Saturday, painting the room to spruce it up a bit. 

Miller picked up pizza for the group that night. 

He was Bellamy’s roommate in the city, and he was nice, helpful. Clarke liked him. 

It was quiet while they ate, sitting at a cheap folding table. Octavia wore the thick, sweet lotion that Aurora loved, making Clarke wistful at the cherry almond scent. She tried to remember the very last time that she’d spoken to Aurora. It was the day before the accident, wasn’t it? It was, and they’d talked about how Clarke wanted to quit her private French lessons, but she didn’t want to be a quitter. 

Bellamy rose to his feet, grabbing a beer from the fridge, and reached for a box. 

They hadn’t unpacked completely yet, and he started to fish through the box.

He startled Clarke when he made a sudden, awful noise, and she turned to see that he’d pulled out Octavia’s recorder. Clarke snorted, and glanced at Octavia in amusement. 

Octavia shrugged. “I figured it couldn’t hurt to keep it. I used to be obsessed with it.” 

“Unless you want your neighbors to detest you, I’d toss it,” Clarke said. 

“It’s not like I’m going to be _playing_ it,” Octavia said. “It’s for posterity, or whatever.” 

That was when Bellamy decided that _he_ wanted to play it. Right then, right there. Clarke rolled her eyes when she recognized the tune, and Octavia threw a crust at him, but he continued to play Hot Cross Buns, starting over when he got to the end, playing through it again, and again, and _again_. 

“I’m going to break that recorder over your head,” Clarke warned. 

Bellamy grinned, and played on. 

He jerked away when Clarke tried to grab the recorder from him. 

She was forced to chase him around the apartment while he played it over and over until she tackled him in the kitchen, jumping on his back. He shouted, trying to hold the recorder over his head, away from her. But they stumbled into the fridge, and she got it at last, slipping to her feet, and elbowed him in the gut. 

Miller clapped, and Octavia gasped for breath with laughter. 

“Well, that’s the last time I try to give _you_ the gift of music,” Bellamy said, wheezing. 

\--- 

It took a while for things to return to something like normal, but they made it through. 

Things started to get easier, to get better. 

Clarke went to their junior prom with Natalie, starting a ruckus that ended when Octavia punched a boy in the face after he spat that Clarke was a dyke. They were booted from the prom, and they ended up at Dairy Queen. Natalie bickered with Octavia’s date while Clarke shared a Blizzard with Octavia, and it was a pretty good prom. 

Octavia decided that she wasn’t going to go to college. 

“It’s not like we have the money to waste.” 

Clarke knew that Octavia wanted to go to college, or at least that she used to, but she was trying to save Bellamy the trouble of finding a way to pay, or the guilt of admitting that there wasn’t a way. She’d never, ever cop to it, but Clarke knew. It didn’t matter, though. 

Bellamy told her that it wasn’t her decision. She _was_ going to go to college. 

They fought. 

Clarke was under the impression that they remained at war three months later when Octavia burst into her room, waving a piece of paper. “I’m going to college,” she shouted. Clarke blinked, and Octavia climbed onto the bed to shove the paper in her face. 

It was from BU, congratulating her on a scholarship. 

“Oh, my God,” Clarke said. 

“I got in, _and_ I got that scholarship that I applied for! Bellamy knows a guy who works at a bar in the city, and he got Bellamy a job, so we’re going to get an apartment, and the pay is good, so we’ll be able to pay for my books, and stuff.” She grinned. “BU, bitches!” 

Clarke laughed, and hugged Octavia. 

It wasn’t really a decision for Clarke. She got into Harvard, and it was the dream. It was where her parents went, where they met, and, well, it was _Harvard_. Plus, it was near Boston, “and that’s where your stunning, spectacular BFF is going to be,” Octavia said. 

Her parents took her to dinner to celebrate.

Truthfully, dinner at Applebee’s on Bellamy’s dime was better. 

He presented Octavia with a sweatshirt from BU, and Clarke was stunned when he pulled out a sweatshirt from Harvard, too. For her. He grinned at her, putting on his new BU baseball hat with a flourish, and clinked his beer with Octavia’s soda, and Clarke’s water. 

“Cheers!” Octavia said, kicking Clarke’s ankle. 

Clarke smiled, pulling on her sweatshirt, and stole a sip from Bellamy’s gross dark beer. 

\--- 

There wasn’t a thing that Clarke didn’t love about college. She loved the freedom, the ability to stay up late, and sleep in late, and do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. She loved her classes, and her professors, and, okay, her roommate was a bitch. 

She loved to leave her clothes around the room, and steal Clarke’s pens. 

Her perfume was a thick, sickly sweet scent, and she lathered it on, making it so that the scent seemed to linger through the room, and when Clarke opened the window to let in some fresh air, she left Clarke a long-winded, passive aggressive note about her allergies. 

Also, she liked to sexile Clarke to have loud, pornographic sex with her boyfriend. _A lot_. 

But it was easy for Clarke to take the T into the city, and spend the night at Octavia’s. 

She knew that her mother was concerned about her ability to make great new friends at college when she was at Octavia’s day in, and day out. But her mother _liked_ to be concerned for her. She got to know the people in her classes, and struck up a conversation with a boy from her dorm in the dorm laundry room. 

His name was Monty, and he was nice, funny.

She thought it was a joke when a boy rushed into the room, screaming at Monty not to wash his jeans. “The pot’s in the back left pocket!” he exclaimed, only to notice that Clarke was in the room. “Not _pot_ pot,” he said. “Just, like. I’m Jasper! Nice to meet you.” 

“I know a place you’ll be able to smoke that.” 

He grinned. 

Two days later, she told her mother on the phone about her great new friends. 

The boys started to hang out at the apartment a lot, and Clarke was there as often as not. After all, it was where her _group_ was on any given day: the boys,  Octavia, and Harper, who was in a class at BU with Octavia, and there were Bellamy’s friends, too: Murphy, who was an ass, and Miller, who was on Clarke’s side when it came to delicious veggie toppings on pizza. 

Bellamy claimed that vegetables weren’t meant for pizza. 

“It’s a pizza,” he said. 

“Yes, it is.” 

“If you want a vegetable, eat a vegetable. Not a pizza.” 

But with Miller on her side, she was able to force Bellamy’s hand. 

They ordered their pizza wish mushrooms, olives, and delicious green peppers. Bellamy sighed at the vegetables like they offended him, picking them off, and throwing a mushroom at Clarke when she took a bite, smirked at him, and hummed, “mmm, delicious.” 

He missed, and she continued to eat her slice with loud, exaggerated delight.

Bellamy wasn’t at the apartment a lot. He worked at the bar in the evenings, and he got a job at an auto body shop, which meant he was busy in the afternoons, too. But he was there on his days off, lounging in his recliner, and she ran into him in the mornings, too. 

Usually, it was after a girl slipped from his room. 

He wandered into the kitchen, wearing boxers, and pulling a t-shirt over his head.

“Morning, Sunshine.” 

He grunted. “You want pancakes?” 

“Yes, please.” 

He wasn’t chatty in the morning, but she told him about her professor in this class, and a test in that class, and how she wanted to see that movie in theaters. He listened, and grumbled about how that movie looked stupid, and started to smoke while he poured the batter on the griddle, only to pause when he saw the look on her face. 

“What?” 

“You’re going to ruin my pancakes,” she said, scrunching up her nose at him. 

He sighed, but he stubbed it out. 

Octavia shuffled into the kitchen sleepily, knocking Clarke’s shoulder. “Ooh, pancakes.” 

\--- 

She went home for a week at Christmas, and it was good to see her parents, to catch up with Monroe, and with Fox. But it was strange not to be in the city, not to be with her friends, and she returned before her dorm was open, staying at the apartment until it was. 

In January, she bumped into Finn. 

He'd been in a class with her in the fall, and he recognized her. His hair was longer than it was in the fall, falling nearly to his shoulders, and his smile was bright, friendly, stretching across his face in a way that surprised her, that made her heart stutter, and skip a beat. 

He took her to coffee, and talked her into a rock climbing date at the gym.

He was confident, and fun, and she was gone as soon as he kissed her.

She wanted Octavia to meet him, which was why she brought him to the apartment. 

It was Friday, and the game was on, meaning the place was crowed with people. Octavia was on the sofa with Harper, and Bellamy was in his recliner, drinking a beer. Murphy was in the chair, Jasper was sprawled on the floor, and Miller was in the kitchen, talking to Monty. Clarke walked in, receiving a lazy, chorused greeting. 

“This is my boyfriend, Finn,” she said, and she listed off their names for Finn. 

Octavia grinned. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Nice to meet you,” Harper said, scooting to allow Clarke to sit on the sofa. 

Finn sat on the floor with his back to her legs, handing Clarke a beer from the pack on the table, and taking a can for himself, too. Bellamy glanced at him. Finn smiled. “Hey, man,” he said. “It’s nice to meet you.” Bellamy nodded, and returned his gaze to the TV.

For a while, it went really, really well. 

He agreed to play Settlers of Catan when Monty pulled it out, taking it like a sport when Monty, Jasper, and Harper formed an alliance against him, and tore him to pieces. Octavia mouthed _cute_ at Clarke over his head; she freaked out when she learned that he was madly in love with the X-Files, too, and they raved about it together for half an hour. 

It seemed like her friends liked him. 

Bellamy didn’t. 

It started when Bellamy swore, and Miller threw up his hands in disgust at the game. 

“This crowd is big on hockey, isn’t it?” Finn asked. 

“This is Boston,” Harper said. “It’s in our blood.” 

Finn nodded. “I guess I don’t really get it.” 

Bellamy frowned. “What do you mean you don’t _get_ it?” 

“I mean, I don’t have a problem specifically with hockey,” Finn explained. “But the fuss over sports in general seems like a waste to me. Think about it like this. Imagine if the devotion, and the time, and the _resources_ that were put into sports were used for an initiative to better the city. To do something that _mattered_ , you know? Recycling, or—” 

“Recycling,” Bellamy repeated. 

Finn smiled. “I know, I know. I sound like a super crazy person.” 

Bellamy started at him, and Finn decided to continue, trying to explain to Bellamy why the money that went into big, professional sports like the NHL was absurd when you considered that it was purely for entertainment, and this was why people hated the U.S. 

“I think people hate the U.S. because _you_ ’re in the U.S.,” Murphy said. 

Jasper snorted, and tried to turn it into a cough when Clarke glanced at him. 

They stayed for another hour before she decided it was time to call it a night, or Bellamy was going to strangle Finn. They left, and she kissed him when he told her that her friends seemed great. She was glad he liked them, and wanted to be friends with them. 

“I don’t think I managed to win Bellamy’s approval, though,” Finn said. 

“He’s known me since I was seven,” Clarke said. “He’s protective.” 

Finn nodded, and his lips started to quirk up in that lazy, playful smile. She kissed him. 

He dropped her off at her dorm, and she returned to the apartment. After all, she needed to discuss with Octavia. She hadn’t shut the door behind her yet when Bellamy pinned her with a glare. “Bring a boy like that to my apartment,” he said, “and you’re _asking_ me to give him a swirly.” 

She rolled her eyes, moving to reclaim a seat on the sofa. “Finn is _nice_. I like him.” 

He stared at her. “He looks like he’s delicate. I’m concerned he’ll drown.” 

She sighed. “I promise not to bring him to your apartment,” she said. “Scout’s honor.” She turned away from him, pulling her legs up under her, and looking at Octavia. “Okay,” she started. “Now _your_ opinion, I care about.” She hugged her knees, hopeful. 

“I approve,” Octavia said, and Clarke grinned. “Good hair, _totally_ into you, funny—”

“Right! He’s funny!” 

“I thought you were a lesbo,” Murphy said. 

Clarke glanced at him. 

“I thought you were going to bring your own fucking beer,” Bellamy said. 

Murphy was about to drink from a beer he’d popped open, but he paused. Bellamy glared at him, and Murphy scoffed. “You’re a dick,” he said, slamming the can on the table. 

Monty walked in from the kitchen. “Hey, Clarke! You’re back.” 

“I’m back,” she said.

“I liked your boyfriend,” Monty said. “He seemed great.” 

Bellamy scoffed. Clarke sighed, rolling her eyes at him, and he imitated her, sighing loudly, and rolling his eyes in a girly, exasperated way. She threw a cushion at him. 

She was glad Octavia liked him. 

The more time she spent with him, the more she felt that warm, giddy feeling that she’d never, ever felt before. She was falling in love with him, with his charm, and his cheesiness, with his kindness, and the way he saw the world, and his passion for things. 

In April, she planned to ask him to meet her parents when they came to visit her. 

She wasn’t able to ask. 

She was in his dorm, sitting at his desk in his sweatshirt, when a girl walked in.

There was a small, hopeful smile on her face, but her gaze landed on Clarke, and she froze, and “Raven,” Finn said, faltering. Clarke began to realize something was off, something was wrong, and she was right. The world seemed to collapse slowly, allowing her to watch, to see it happen in vivid, awful detail. 

She ran, ignoring Finn’s plea for her to wait, to listen. 

She was crying by the time she got to the apartment, and barreled into Octavia’s arms.

\--- 

She knew that Finn was looking for her. He cornered Monty in the dorm to ask where she was, and caught Jasper between classes, pleading his case, and begging Jasper to convince her to talk to him. He knew what her schedule was, and he went to the buildings where she was in class, waiting for her to emerge from her class.

But she inserted herself into a conversation with her classmates, and ignored him. 

He loitered at the kiosk with the mochas that were to die for. She went to Starbucks. 

It figured that, eventually, he was going to show up at the apartment. 

But when there was a knock on the door, it didn’t occur to her that he’d have the guts. She frowned from where she was cocooned in a throw on the sofa, and glanced at Bellamy, reading a book in his recliner. “Do we have a friend who knocks?” she asked. 

“No,” he said. 

There was another string of loud, persistent knocks. 

He tossed his book aside, going to the door while Clarke put the TV on mute. She wasn’t able to see who was at the door from this angle, but his voice was clear. She froze. 

“I need to talk to Clarke,” Finn said.

“If you don’t get the hell off my doorstep, you’re going to _need_ to go to the hospital.” 

But it was clear that Finn wasn’t about to give up. He came to the apartment despite the fact that he must’ve known Bellamy wanted to kill him, and now he dug his heels in despite the murder in Bellamy’s voice. “I’m not leaving until I talk to her,” he insisted. 

For a moment, she was tempted to have Bellamy chase him off.

But she needed to do this, to face him. She couldn’t avoid it forever. 

“Let him in,” she said, and she sat up, shedding her blanket. Bellamy glanced at her. She nodded. He sighed, and stepped away from the door to allow Finn in. Immediately, Finn pinned her with his sad, wounded puppy face, and she grit her teeth. 

“Clarke, I—” He paused and glanced at Bellamy. “Could you give us a minute?” 

Bellamy crossed his arms over his chest.

“It’s fine,” Clarke said.

Bellamy huffed, but he went to his room after a moment, shutting the door.

“I’m sorry,” Finn started. 

“For cheating on your girlfriend with me, or that I found out?”

“It’s not like that. That’s what I need to explain. I thought we were broken up.” 

She scoffed. 

“I _did._ Raven and I—we were together in high school, and it was great, and I thought that she was the one, but we went to college, and we fought _all the time_. It got to the point that I never really knew where we stood. Then right before I met you, we had this huge blowout, and I _thought_ it was a breakup.”

“But it wasn’t.” 

“But I thought it was! I didn’t think I was cheating on her, ‘cause I didn’t think we were together. For me, we _weren’t_. I swear, Clarke. I would never do that to her, or to you. You have to believe me. Please. _Please_. Believe me when I say that I really _didn’t know_.” 

She swallowed thickly. “Okay. I believe you.” 

“You do?” His gaze was soft, hopeful 

“I do. I believe that you really thought you were broken up.”

He took a step, reaching for her. 

“But I want to be clear,” she said. “We—you and me— _we_ are broken up.” 

He froze. “Clarke—” 

“I don’t want to see you anymore. I don’t want to stay friends. I believe that you didn’t think you were cheating on her. I do. I believe you, and if it’s forgiveness you want, okay. I forgive you. But I—I don’t want be with you. Not now, and not ever. I’m sorry.” 

“I love you.” 

She gaped at him. “What—you—what am I supposed to say to that?” 

“Say you’ll give me a chance,” he pleaded. “Give _us_ a chance.”

“I did,” she said, “and it didn’t work.” 

“Clarke—”

“I think it’s time for you to go.”

“No. No, please. I know that I ruined everything, but I—”

“I’d like you to leave, Finn. 

He stared at her. “I can’t. I can’t just walk away from you.” 

“You said what you wanted to say, and I have, too, and I’d like you to leave.” 

“Clarke, _please_ —” 

Bellamy threw open his door, stalking into the room. “Time to go,” he growled. 

“Clarke,” Finn said.

Bellamy glared. “You’re done.” 

“This doesn’t have anything to do with you,” Finn snapped. 

Bellamy sniffed in that terse, angry way. 

“Clarke—” Finn started. 

Bellamy punched him in the face. Finn buckled at the force of the blow, stumbling into the sofa. He touched his hand to his mouth, pulling it away to reveal the blood that stained his lip. It was quiet. Slowly, Finn turned his gaze from Bellamy to look at Clarke. 

She crossed her arms, and kept her face blank, cold. “It’s time for you to leave.” 

His chin seemed to wobble. “I don’t want to lose you.” 

She sighed, softening. “Please, Finn,” she said. “Do this for to me. Let me be.” 

He swallowed visibly, nodding after a moment, and going to the door without a word.

It closed quietly behind him, and there was a horrible, deafening silence. 

She was overcome suddenly with the need to cry. She tightened her arms a little, hugging herself. She _hated_ that he did this to her: that he made her fall for him, and turned out to be a jerk. That for one stupid, _stupid_ split-second, she thought about giving him a chance, and being with him despite Raven. 

She pressed her fingers into her arms. She wasn’t going to cry over him. 

“Hey.” Bellamy started to reach for her, only for his arm to drop. 

“It’s fine,” she said. She mustered a smile. “I’m fine.” 

He nodded. “Do you want dinner?” he tried. “I was going to make spaghetti.” 

“That sounds, um. That’s great. I think I might take a nap now, though.” 

“Sure.” 

She started for Octavia’s room, only to turn on her heel, and surge into Bellamy. She hugged him, hiding her face in his t-shirt. It took him a moment, but his arms came around her, and she took a slow, shuddering breath. Hesitantly, Bellamy rubbed her back. 

He smelled like cigarettes, deodorant. Inexplicably, it made her want to cry.

She pulled away, glancing sheepishly at him. “I’m sorry.”

“He’s a butthole,” Bellamy said. 

It made her snort, only for her cheeks to flush at his gaze. “Okay. Well.” She nodded, and scuttled to Octavia’s room, closing the door, and making a beeline for Octavia’s bed. 

She was glad Octavia was in class. It gave Clarke the chance to process.

She hadn’t wanted to think about him after the truth was thrown at her, and she was good at that, at avoiding the thought she didn’t want to think, at keeping the tears she didn’t want to cry at bay. But she lay in Octavia’s bed with the sheets at her chin, and she cried. 

She thought it was going to take her a while to doze off. It didn’t.

The apartment was quiet when she woke, and she padded from the bedroom. It was late, which meant that Bellamy was at work. She found a note from him on the counter, though. _Clarke. Dinner’s in the oven for you. Turn it off when you get up. Seriously, don’t burn my apartment down. Bellamy._

She rolled her eyes, and checked her phone. 

There was a text from Octavia, explaining why she wasn’t back from class yet; she was going for Chinese with Harper after class, and asking Clarke to come with. But it was from nearly an hour ago. Clarke texted that she took a nap, and _bring an eggroll for me!_  

There was a text from Finn, too. 

She didn’t read it. 

She deleted his number from her phone, and blocked it, too. She was done with him, done  crying over him, and dealing with him, and wanting to be with him. She was _done_. 

She grabbed a fork, turned off the oven, and pulled out the plate, breathing out a laugh when she uncovered it to see that her pasta had a face: with meatballs for eyes, and a stupid, loopy smile drawn in sauce. She bit her lip, and affection for him surged up in her.

It was awkward, but she was able to take a selfie with the plate, and she smiled, too. 

She texted it to Bellamy, tacking on _you’re the best_! for a caption.

He wasn’t able to reply for a while, but she grinned at his response when it came. _I know._

\---

Octavia decided that the perfect, totally reasonable thing to cheer Clarke up was a kitten.

It was Harper’s idea, and it was a joke. 

Or it was until Octavia got on Craigslist, and started to look for a kitten, mumbling under her breath at her choices. Clarke laughed, but. “This is a joke, right?” she said, eyeing Octavia. “Tell me you aren’t really about to get a cat off Craigslist. Seriously. I’m going to need you to say it.” 

“What color do you want?” Octavia asked. 

“I know nothing about responsible cat ownership.”

“That’s what Wikipedia is for.”

“What am I supposed to _do_ with a kitten?” 

“Love it.” 

“Where am I supposed to keep a kitten?” 

“Here.” 

Clarke raised an eyebrow at her. If the plan was to keep the cat at the apartment, it wasn’t going to be Clarke’s. It was going to be Octavia’s. Octavia ignored Clarke, and Clarke smirked, changing the channel on the TV while Octavia continued her search for a kitten. 

In the morning, they went to pick up her choice. 

He was tiny, fluffy, and brown, and he was _adorable_. Clarke was in love within minutes.

“What are you going to name him?” Octavia asked. 

“What am I going to name _your_ cat?” 

“How about after an artist, or something? Michelangelo. Pablo. Vincent? Bob Ross!” 

Clarke laughed. 

It was fun, buying a bed, a bowl, and toys for him, and playing with him. 

She figured that Bellamy knew about his sister’s plans for a pet.

But when she woke up at three in the morning to a shout from the kitchen, she learned that Octavia might’ve neglected to inform him. Bellamy stormed into Octavia’s room, flipping on the light to glare at her, and holding the kitten like he thought it was diseased. 

“What is this?” 

“It’s a really large, really fluffy cockroach,” Octavia said, squinting at the light.

He continued to glare at her, and the kitten squirmed in his hand, crying piteously. He made a face, glancing uncertainly at the cat, and Clarke snorted at his expression. 

“He’s Clarke’s,” Octavia said.

“He’s not,” Clarke said. 

“I’m not about to waste my money on a _cat_ ,” Bellamy growled. 

“Clarke isn’t allowed to keep him at her dorm.” 

“Again, I’d like to emphasize that he is not my cat.” 

“Don’t listen to your mommy, Bob Ross. She’s got emotional intimacy problems.” 

Clarke rolled her eyes, and turned away from the light, yanking the sheets over her head, to make it clear that she was finished with the discussion. They weren’t, and she was asleep before they were. But in the days that followed, they _continued_ to fight about him. 

“It’s impossible to sleep with a damn lawn mower on my neck!” 

“He’s _purring_! It means he love you! Grow a heart.” 

“Who the fuck is paying for a new laptop chord when your cat chews through mine?”

“If you played with him, he wouldn’t have to misbehave to get your attention.” 

It went on, and on. 

But when Clarke came to the apartment only a week after, she found Bellamy on the sofa, dozing, and Bob Ross curled up in ball on Bellamy’s chest, purring like a damn lawn mower. She smirked, and took a picture to text to Octavia. Octavia put it up on Facebook, captioning it _Bob Ross loves his daddy_! Bellamy wasn’t pleased. 

It didn’t matter what he said.

The kitten _did_ cheer Clarke up, but she was right. He wasn’t her cat. He was Bellamy’s. 

\--- 

Spring crept up on them, bringing the end of the semester, and the start of their finals. 

“We need to get out, and find something _fun_ to do,” Octavia said. 

It was that, or her soul was going to wither away to nothing. Her suggestion was to go to the park batting cages. Bellamy looked at her in amusement, but she insisted that it was going to be fun, that she was pumped, they were doing it, and it wasn’t up for discussion. 

Naturally, she didn’t show up. 

They picked a night when Bellamy was off, and when Clarke didn’t have an exam in the morning to worry about. Octavia was supposed to meet them at the cages with Harper when their class was finished, but they were late, and neither responded to Clarke’s texts. 

“Let’s get this party started without them,” Clarke said, swinging her bat. 

Bellamy turned on the machine when she nodded. 

It pitched a ball at Clarke. She swung, and she missed. 

“Now I’m warmed up,” she said. 

But she missed the next, and the one after that, and one after that.

“Enough,” Bellamy said. “Give me that.” He took the bat from her, and started to tell her how to stand, how to pick a point in the distance, to swing towards that point, and a ball was pitched at him, smacking him in the side. He jumped, and glared at the machine. 

She laughed. “You’re a natural.” 

But he hit the next, making it sail away like a pro. She sighed. 

“Come on.” He motioned for her to stand at the mound, to take the bat. “No. Not like—” 

“This is how you told me to hold it!”

“You look like you’re getting ready to bash a zombie’s head in.” 

“I’m about to bash your head in.” 

“Fine.” He crossed his arms. “Have at it.” 

She missed. “Fuck. This shouldn’t be that hard!” It was starting to frustrate her. 

“Just—” He moved where her hands were on the bat, and made her stand to the side. She took a swing, missing the ball that was pitched, and he made a face. “Okay. Look.” He stepped up behind her, wrapping his arms around her arms, and covering her hands with his. He started to show her how to swing, going through the motion with her, only to back off quickly. “That’s, um. Like that. Good.” 

They waited for a pitch, realizing after a beat that the machine needed to be reloaded. 

He started to collect the balls, and Clarke helped. 

It was while he loaded them into the machine that she got a text from Octavia, explaining that her professor assigned some group project that’s due next week, _‘cause he’s an asswipe_ , forcing her to meet with her group right after the class, and the same for Harper. 

She read the text to Bellamy, and he nodded. 

“How much do you want to bet that their professor told them about it like a month ago?” 

“I will bet you everything I own that he told them _at least_ a month ago.” 

He grinned, and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, starting to tap a cigarette into his palm. But he didn’t. He sighed, closing the case, and returned the pack to his pocket.

She eyed him. “I haven’t seen you smoke in a while.” 

“If you mean in like two fucking days, it’s ‘cause I’m trying to quit.”

“What?” She grinned, bouncing on her heels a little. “ _Bellamy_!”

“It’s expensive. Costs like half my paycheck, so.” He shrugged. 

She nodded. “This is great! I’m excited!” 

“It might not last.” 

“It will! I believe in you. Ooh, hey! I’ll be your sponsor!” 

He raised an eyebrow at her. 

“I mean it! Text me when you get a craving, and I’ll reply with encouragement. Like I’ll send you pictures of gross smoker lungs, or promise to buy you a Snickers if you resist the temptation. Make it a month, and I’ll bake you a cake, or something! Give in, and I’ll cry!” He laughed, and she beamed at him. 

“Okay.” He turned on the machine. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“I hope you’re ready to be amazed.”

“I’m ready.” 

“I don’t know that you are. It’s going to be good. It’s going to be—”

She knocked it out of the park, or, well, she knocked it, you know, slightly to the left. 

Bellamy clapped. She stuck her tongue out at him.

They left soon after, deciding they needed drinks to celebrate Clarke’s new, awesome ability to hit a ball with a bat. But before they went, Clarke threw an arm around Bellamy’s shoulders, forcing him to duck a little so that she could press her check to his, and snap a picture. She put it up on Instagram, labeling it _suck it, Octavia_! 

Octavia liked the photo about eight seconds later.

“I’m glad she’s hard at work,” Bellamy said. 

On the T, Clarke made it the background on her phone. It was a really good photo. 

\--- 

She wanted to stay in the city that summer, and she was able to convince her mother to let her when she got a job at the free clinic desk, answering phones, filling out paperwork, and _learning from doctors, Mom_. It didn’t pay a lot, but she didn’t need it to. 

She was able to save on rent, bunking with Octavia. 

Octavia was the lifeguard at a local club pool, and she got Harper a job at the pool, too. 

Monty interned at a lab that was down the street from Clarke’s clinic, which made it easy for them to grab lunch together. Usually, they got sandwiches to go, and walked three blocks over to the auto body shop where Bellamy worked, eating in the garage with him. 

She choked on her soda when Raven walked through the back of the shop.

Her hair was thrown up in a long, swinging ponytail, and she was in a t-shirt that was streaked in grease, and there was grease on her legs, too, and across her forehead. 

Bellamy followed Clarke’s gaze to look at Raven. “Do you know her?” 

She blinked. “Not really. I met her, um. Once.” 

It turned out that Raven worked at the shop, and had for a while, although her shifts only started to line up with Bellamy’s a week ago. “Dave hired her in April,” Bellamy explained. “She’s at MIT, but she’s a mechanic. Knows her shit when it comes to cars.”  

Clarke was going to have to avoid the shop for the rest of the summer. It was settled. 

But it didn’t work like that. 

Three minutes later, Raven shouted for Bellamy, stalking to where they sat. She started to ask a question, only to pause when she noticed Clarke. “This is Clarke,” Bellamy introduced, oblivious, “and Monty. They’re friends with my sister. Guys, this is Raven.” 

Monty smiled, and Clarke forced her gaze up to meet Raven’s. 

“We’ve met,” Raven said. “We got screwed by the same whiney, cheating a-hole.” 

Clarke stared.

Raven wasn’t fazed. She turned to Bellamy to ask her question, and it took him a moment to answer; it was clear that he was thrown for a loop at the realization that Raven was Finn’s ex-girlfriend. But he managed to tell her where to find those receipts, and she left. 

“I guess she’s cool with you,” Monty said. 

“I guess,” Clarke said. 

She was. It was a week after their first, awkward encounter at the garage that Clarke ran into her. She was there to drop off Bellamy’s cell for him, and Raven started a conversation with her, and came right out, said it. She didn’t hold it against Clarke that Finn cheated on Raven with her. 

Clarke didn’t really know how it happened, but they started to hang out after that.

Raven was smart, and sarcastic. She was _fun_. 

It was her idea to paste Finn’s picture to Bellamy’s dartboard when they were drunk. 

She introduced Clarke to popcorn with M&Ms, and liked to play Mario Kart, jerking her arms violently while she raced in the way that Clarke liked to, meaning that Bellamy mocked her, too. She was a dork about Star Wars, quoting it at Clarke _during_ the movie.

She got along with Octavia, too. 

She got fake IDs for Clarke, Octavia, and Harper, and they went out on the town; nobody at the bar suspected a thing, checking their IDs, and making their drinks. Clarke was excited to try a ton of fun, colorful cocktails, and she was sloshed by the end of the night. 

Her friends were, too, meaning Bellamy was called to pick them up. 

He seemed to put up a fight.

Clarke leaned into Octavia, and wheedled “ _please_!” into Octavia’s phone. 

He sighed as soon as he saw them, wiping the spit off his face when Octavia kissed his cheek sloppily. But he figured out their bills for them, telling them what to tip, and he carted them from the bar, keeping a hold on Octavia’s arm so that she didn’t wander off. 

He piled them into his truck, and they stayed at the apartment that night. 

Harper crawled into bed with Octavia, and Raven took the sofa, which left Clarke with Bellamy’s recliner, which was actually, surprisingly comfortable. “The cushioning is superb,” Clarke said, wiggling around on the recliner while Bellamy pulled off her heels.

“I’m glad you approve.” 

“Supple,” she added. 

“Go to bed,” he replied, tossing a blanket at her. 

In the morning, she woke with a massive, well-deserved hangover, and she was eager for the Ibuprofen that Raven tossed at her. “Where is everybody?” she asked, pouring juice for herself, and glancing around the empty, quiet apartment. It was Sunday, right? Right. 

“I think Octavia is in bed. Harper woke up like an hour ago, and went to her dorm after she threw up her guts in the toilet. Bellamy was gone when I woke up. He made pancakes, though.” She shook her head. “I’m surprised he didn’t kill us all in our sleep.”

“Why’s that?” 

“I don’t know what you remember from last night, but we were a hot mess.” 

“I seem to recall that vaguely, yes.” 

Raven grinned. “Anyway, he was forced to herd us around like sheep.” 

“But he loves that stuff,” Clarke said. “Being a big brother, taking care of people.” 

“Then he’s a fucking saint. Do you know when he came to get us, I think he was in the middle of picking up a chick? He was dressed up, and there was lipstick on his collar.” 

She hadn’t known that, but it didn’t surprise her.

“To be honest, I was so drunk that _I_ thought about making a move on him,” Raven said.

Clarke stared, and laughed a little. “What?” 

“I’m serious. If it was only us, I probably would have.”

“You’re kidding.” 

“Hey, it’s been a while, and a girl’s got needs. But if you pick up a rando at a bar, you might end up with some creep who doesn’t know his shit. Now, Bellamy, I _know_ he’s good. Not really my type, but I could go for another night of crazy, drunk sex with him.”

“Hold on, you’ve—you’ve slept with Bellamy,” Clarke said, stunned. 

“Did you not know that?” 

Clarke stared. “No. I—when? I didn’t . . .” 

Raven nodded. “It was only, like, a week after I started at the shop. I needed a distraction, and he was hot.” She shrugged, and continued to eat her yogurt like it wasn’t a big deal, like it didn’t mean a thing. “I guess it’s good that I didn’t jump him last night. I could still use a distraction, and he’s still hot, but. Friendship, and shit.” 

Clarke dropped her gaze to the counter, trying not to freak out. 

There wasn’t a reason to freak out. 

“What?” Raven said. 

“What? Nothing.” 

“It’s something.” She stared at Clarke. “You’re upset.” 

“No. No, I’m not. I’m just—” 

“You are,” Raven insisted. “You’re upset. That’s what that look on your face is. Why?” 

“I’m not—”

“Do you have a thing for him?” 

“What?”

“Do you _like_ Bellamy? Do you want to date him?” 

“I know what you meant, and, no, I don’t. It’s not like that.”

“Then what’s it like?”

Clarke sighed. “It’s—” She shook her head. 

“It looks like you like him. I mean, I tell you I slept with him, and you get upset.” 

“It’s not—” She huffed. “But I—”

“What?” 

“He’s _mine_.” 

She hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t really meant to _think_ it. But it was what came out, and awful, deafening silence followed. “Oh,” Raven said at last, and Clarke stared at the floor. She knew it was stupid, and childish; she didn’t have any sort of claim on Bellamy. 

But it had always seemed like an inevitability to her.

Until Finn, she'd assumed that her sexuality was girls, and Bellamy Blake. 

She had adored him when she was little, and it had turned into camaraderie when she got older, into affection, and attraction. Bellamy was smart, funny, _caring_ ; there was a _goodness_ to him. It was easy to talk to him, easy to waste a day away with him. Things were always better when he was there, always more fun. 

She knew it was silly, but.

She thought about the girls that paraded from the apartment: tall and thin and with dark, shiny hair. They were always fit, and attractive in a fierce, loud way. Clarke wasn’t.

She liked the way she looked, but she was lighter, softer. 

Even if he didn’t have a type, she knew that she was a kid to him, and a sister. 

“Okay,” Raven said. 

Clarke nodded, and dropped her gaze, wishing it were possible to breathe a sentence in after you’d breathed it out, to take it back, and pretend you hadn’t really meant it. 

“I want to be friends with you,” Raven added. 

Clarke looked at her. 

“I don’t want this to . . .” 

Clarke flushed. This was stupid. Raven didn’t hold it against Clarke that Clarke slept with her boyfriend without knowing that he was Raven’s boyfriend; Clarke wasn’t about to hold it against Raven that Raven slept with Bellamy without knowing that Bellamy was, well, nothing to Clarke. 

“Me, too,” Clarke said. She smiled. “I want to be friends with you, too.” 

Raven nodded, and they seemed to agree silently to forget the whole, awful conversation. 

\--- 

Octavia developed a crush on the older, ridiculously attractive man about a minute after she bumped into him. They were at a bar, using their fake IDs, and she was talking animatedly to Clarke when she turned, stumbling, and spilled her beer on Lincoln’s shirt. 

She began to apologize, and he smiled. 

Clarke hadn’t ever, _ever_ seen Octavia fall as hard as she seemed to fall for Lincoln.

Clarke liked him. In a way, he was unreal. He was a firefighter, and he liked to garden for a hobby, and he was sweet, attentive, worshipping the ground that Octavia walked on.

The problem wasn’t Lincoln.

It was the decision to keep Lincoln a secret. Octavia was crazy about Lincoln, which was why she decided _not_ to inform her brother about her crush, who became her date, who turned quickly into her boyfriend. “He’ll freak,” she said. “Until things with Lincoln are serious, there isn’t a reason to involve him.” 

Clarke disagreed. “He’ll be pissed that you kept him in the dark,” she said. 

It didn’t matter what Clarke thought. 

Octavia wasn’t going to change her mind, and Clarke agreed to keep her secret for her. 

\--- 

Clarke was excited about her classes that fall, and happy to return to school in September. 

She was happy to be on campus, to catch up with people she hadn’t seen in months. 

She was assigned to Kirkland for a House in March, signing up for the lottery in a block with Monty, Jasper, and Jasper’s girlfriend, Maya, and she ended up in a room with Maya. She liked Maya, although it took her a while to realize that Maya was shy, and her quiet, stilted demeanor wasn’t because she disliked Clarke. 

Lexa was in Kirkland. She was a senior, and was studying art. 

She was gorgeous, too, but Clarke got the feeling that Lexa didn’t like her, basing it on the cold, haughty way that Lexa eyed her when they were introduced at a mixer. 

But, suddenly, it seemed like Lexa was everywhere that Clarke was. 

Clarke was tipsy at a party in October when Lexa made a snide, unnecessary comment about Jasper, and Clarke decided it was time to give Lexa a piece of her mind. She chugged the remains of her drink, and started in on Lexa, asking her why felt the need to be a _bully_ to everyone about everything. 

“You talk about people like they’re beneath you,” Clarke said. 

Lexa wasn’t fazed, sipping her drink.

“But you know what I think?” Clarke went on. “I think _you_ —” She stabbed Lexa in the sternum for an emphasis. “—are a big, insecure _bully_.” She jabbed her finger at Lexa again, because she could, and, well, her irritated, alcohol-addled brain found it satisfying. 

“You said that,” Lexa said. 

Clarke glared. “Doesn’t it make you miserable to hate everything, and everyone?” 

“I don’t.” 

Clarke scoffed, and opened her mouth to retort. 

But she wasn’t able to. Lexa’s eyes dropped suddenly to Clarke’s lips, startling her into silence. Clarke gaped, and “I like _you_ ,” Lexa whispered. She raised her gaze slowly to look Clarke in the eye, and started to lean in. Clarke sucked in a breath. Lexa kissed her.

It took her by surprise how suddenly she liked Lexa, and how much. 

But it turned out that it was hard not to adore her a little. 

In the weeks that followed, Lexa pulled Clarke into her world. 

They drank wine in Lexa’s bed, watching foreign movies that Clarke wouldn’t have been able to convince Octavia to watch in a million, billion years. They went to small art galleries in the city, and local poetry slams, and hipster, little hole-in-the-wall restaurants.

She loved it, but it filled her days, and it filled her nights, and, well. 

Clarke wanted Lexa to meet her friends, but Lexa came up with a new, different excuse not to hang out at the apartment every single time that Clarke brought it up, and it was hard to be annoyed at her when it turned out that she got tickets to see this, or go to that. 

Octavia begged Clarke to go to a party at BU with them for Halloween.

She wanted to, planning to skip the party that Kirkland was having; Monty, Jasper, and Maya were skipping, and they were her best,  _only_  friends in the house. But Lexa wanted to go, and their costumes went together. 

 _I’m not okay with this_ , Octavia texted. She was mad. 

She was right to be. 

Four days later, Clarke dragged Lexa to meet her friends at a bar.

She was excited for Lexa to meet them, but she was excited, too, simply to get to hang out with her friends in their big, stupid group, and it made her happy that they were excited to see her, hailing her as soon as she walked into the bar, pulling her into hugs. 

Octavia pulled Clarke into her side, pinching Clarke’s arm. “I was starting to forget what you look like,” she said. 

Bellamy was sitting on a stool at the bar with his back to her, and she snuck up on him, hugging him from behind. He stiffened at first, relaxing a moment later, and his back shook a little with laughter when she squeezed him. She bopped him in the back of his head with her nose before she released him, and he turned to look at her. 

“Look who showed up,” he said, grinning. 

She sighed. “I know, I know. I’ve been super, inexcusably lame.” 

Lexa appeared at her side. “What do you want to drink?” 

“Lexa! This is Bellamy. Bellamy, Lexa.” 

Bellamy nodded, and took a sip of his beer; Lexa smiled tightly, silent. 

Clarke looked between them.  “Well, okay,” she said, and laughed a little, trying to dispel the awkwardness. She ordered a martini, stealing a sip from Bellamy’s beer in the meantime. The sooner everyone started drinking, the better everything was going to go. 

But alcohol wasn’t enough, and she realized quickly that it was a mistake to bring Lexa.

Lexa wasn’t good with people she didn’t know. 

She was cold, standoffish, and judged them openly. It seemed at first like she was trying to make an effort with Clarke’s friends, especially with Octavia. But it didn’t last. 

Harper asked Lexa what TV shows she watched, and Lexa stared at her for a moment, replying “are you serious?” Clarke was embarrassed at the disdain in her expression, catching the look that Harper exchanged with Maya, and wanting to rewind that moment. 

It got worse. She was _awful_ to Bellamy, talking to him like he was stupid. 

“What is it you do?” she asked. 

“I’m a mechanic.” 

She nodded. “I guess you don’t have to go to school for that.” She took a sip of her drink, and it wasn’t what she said; it was the _way_ she said it, the derision in her voice, in the smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and she refused to relent, continuing to question him, and making rude, condescending comments. 

Monty asked Lexa about her major. 

She told him that she majored in art, and she looked at Bellamy. “Do you like art?”

“I guess,” he said. “Sure.” 

“What artists do you like?” Lexa smiled. 

He stared at her. “I like it when it looks real. Not that dumb modern stuff.”

“My, it’s like you’re an aficionado.” 

Clarke snapped. “What is your problem?” she demanded.

Lexa stiffened. “Don’t make a scene, Clarke.”

“Don’t talk to my friend like that, _Lexa_ ,” Octavia snarled.

The table was silent.

Lexa’s jaw clenched, unclenched, and Clarke knew that she wanted to take it back. But she couldn’t, and she didn’t try to. She stood. “I think it’s time for me to go,” she said, slipping on her coat. She glanced at Clarke. “It was nice to meet you all.” She didn’t wait for a reply, heading for the door. 

Clarke followed.

Lexa stood on the curb, waiting.

“Do you want to tell me what that was about?” Clarke asked. Lexa was silent, staring into the street, and Clarke sighed, crossed her arms. “Those are my _friends_ ,” she went on, swallowing thickly. “My favorite people in the _world_ , Lexa, and you treated them like—” 

“I’m sorry that I don’t want to be friends with the guy you have a crush on,” Lexa said. 

Clarke stared. “What?”

“Don’t, Clarke. It’s obvious in the way you talk about him.”

“Well, I’m not _with_ him. I’m with _you_ , and I need you to treat my friends decently.”

Clarke returned to the bar, finding Bellamy where she left him. 

“I’m sorry,” Clarke started. “She isn’t usually a jerk.”

“She is, too,” Jasper said, looking over his shoulder at them.

Clarke glared, and Jasper sighed dramatically, returning to his conversation with Monty. She looked at Bellamy. “Okay, she is a little bit of a jerk,” she said. “But she isn’t regularly as awful as she was tonight. I think you caught her on a bad day, or something.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “I should go. I’m working early tomorrow.”

“In the morning?”

“I’ve started working a lot more at the shop. Nearly full time.” He shrugged.

“That’s great. That’s what you want, right?”

He nodded, and there was a pause. “I’ll see you around, Clarke,” he said, and he pressed a kiss to her temple, brushing a hand against her arm before he passed her, disappearing into the crowd of the bar. She stared after him, feeling suddenly like she wanted to cry. It was the look on his face, how he’d seemed. _Sad_.

“He misses you,” Murphy said.

She glanced at him.

“Now that you’ve got a girlfriend, you don’t have time for your friends.” He took a shot, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Honestly, I’m surprised. I know she’s hot, and cultured, and goes to Harvard like you. But I’d have never pinned you for _that_ person.” 

Clarke stared. “I’m not.”

“I hate to break it to you, but you are.” 

“Right,” she said. “It looks like this is really tough for you.” She rolled her eyes, and left to find Octavia at the dartboard. But his words stuck with her, following her out of the bar, staying with her when she went to bed that night, and when she woke in the morning.

She was going to make things right, do this whole thing better.

Honestly, she felt guilty about what Lexa said, about the fact that, okay, yes, she had a crush on Bellamy. But she had for years; she wasn’t about to _act_ on it. He wasn’t interested, and neither was she. Not really. It was like she told Lexa. She was _with_ her. 

The guilt was enough, though, that she forgave Lexa for the disaster of a night, and they didn’t talk about it after that, pretended it never happened. They didn’t talk about a lot. 

But her mind was made up about this at least: she wasn’t going to abandon her friends because she got a girlfriend. It got better after that. She made a point to see them, although it usually meant that she was forced _not_ to see Lexa, and that started to bug her a lot. It bugged her from the start, sure, that Lexa seemed totally, completely uninterested in getting to know Clarke’s friends. But the more time passed, the more it frustrated Clarke.

Eventually, things came to a head in a way that made it easy for Clarke to choose.

Near the end of the semester, Clarke decided that she was going to major in art. She met with an advisor from the department, who happened to be Clarke’s professor for introduction to composition, and she was thrilled with Clarke’s decision, suggesting immediately that Clarke submit a portfolio for a contest that the department was having. Clarke knew about the contest; Lexa started to work on a portfolio to submit as soon as the contest was announced as the beginning of the semester, and it cropped up in pretty much every conversation among Lexa’s friends now; they were as eager as Lexa to win. 

The winner was going to have her work displayed in a downtown gallery showcase.

“Do you think I have a shot?” Clarke asked.

“I do.”

Clarke was smiling like an idiot when she left the meeting. 

She knew that she didn’t _really_ have a chance. That she was a sophomore, and that her professor was being overly optimistic, or simply kind. But she was going to try for it anyway; it was fun to be excited about something, to have something to work towards. 

It was worth a shot, right? 

She was going to have to get to work immediately, though; the deadline was in a week.

She texted Octavia with the news, and Bellamy right after, saying that she was going to take over his apartment, and paint up a storm; that was the medium she excelled in. Octavia texted that Clarke was going to rock it, and she always knew that Clarke was going to be a famous, ritzy artist. 

 _you’re going to ruin my carpet again, aren’t you?_ Bellamy texted.

She showed up at the apartment that night to find it was stocked with peach ice cream, garlic flavored chips, and sweet raspberry cider that Bellamy hated, and Clarke loved. 

She got to work.

In the end, she was forced simply to put a lot of her old, favorite pieces in the portfolio; Bellamy looked at them with her, and helped her pick them out. She showed them to Lexa, too, who hummed a little, and told Clarke that her work was good for a sophomore.

By the end of the week, Clarke was exhausted, and behind in every single class.

Now she needed to study for her finals.

Lexa agreed to drop off Clarke’s portfolio along with her own when Clarke asked her to; that gave Clarke a chance to study for at least the morning before her final psych exam.

“I owe you,” Clarke said, kissing her.

But on the Monday after, Clarke got an e-mail from her professor that asked why Clarke hadn’t submitted a portfolio. _I know that your classes keep you busy, but a talented, aspiring artist like you shouldn’t pass up on opportunities like this_! Clarke was stunned, replying that she submitted it on Thursday.

Her professor wrote that it never got to her desk, and there must’ve been a mix up.

The truth didn’t occur to Clarke at first.

It wasn’t until she asked Lexa what she thought could’ve happened that she realized. Her portfolio never got to her professor’s desk because Lexa agreed to turn it in for Clarke, and didn’t. There wasn’t a mix up; it wasn’t a mistake. Clarke asked Lexa for a favor, and Lexa used the opportunity to sabotage Clarke.

“What is the _matter_ with you?” She gaped at Lexa.

“You’re a sophomore, Clarke,” Lexa said. “You’ll have your shot. I’m a senior. I _need_ to get my name on the marker, my _work_ on the market.” She paused. “I’ve been working towards this for _months_. You knew that, but you decided to go up against me regardless.”

“Go up against you,” Clarke repeated, incredulous. “It wasn’t about _you_ , Lexa.”

“You mean you didn’t want to win?” Lexa challenged. “You didn’t want to beat me?”

Clarke shook her head. “You don’t get to do that, to put this on me. If you didn’t want me to enter the contest, you should’ve told me.” She paused, but Lexa was silent, and Clarke scoffed. “But, you know, it shouldn’t have _mattered_. I’d have been happy for you if you’d won, and I was stupid enough to think you would’ve been happy for me if I’d won. That’s how it works when you care about a person.”

“I care about you, Clarke,” Lexa said. “I do.”

“If you cared about me, you wouldn’t have done this,” Clarke said.

Lexa didn’t try to stop her when she left, or to contact her before the end of the semester, and Clarke was glad. She needed to process. “It’s not that she ruined my chance to win the contest,” Clarke told Octavia. “I was never really going to win. I’m a sophomore, and I prepared for a _week_. It’s that she actually, literally _sabotaged_ me.”

The last few days before break were awful.

She learned before she went home for Christmas that Lexa won the contest.

Christmas with her parents was nice, quiet. They listened to festive Christmas music, and baked Christmas cookies, and she played Operation with her mother on Christmas, winning for the sixth year in a row. She helped her father with the crossword on Sunday, and helped him shovel the driveway, too.

But she was ready to return to the city after a week.

Octavia made Bellamy wait to celebrate their Christmas until Clarke returned.

He made a feast for breakfast like Aurora used to; there were eggs, bacon, and pancakes, plus cinnamon rolls, and French toast, and coffee cake. Bellamy wanted to clean up as soon as they finished, but Octavia chanted for _presents, presents, presents_! and she won.

She wanted Clarke to open the present she got her first.

It was a mug that was decorated with pieces of art from throughout history. Clarke saw it in the dorm kitchen sink once, loved it, and wanted it for herself. Octavia was pleased with herself for having found it. She leaned into Clarke, grinning while Clarke listed off the works on the mug.

Clarke got Octavia the fancy hair dryer that she wanted.

Octavia screamed, and ran off to take a shower immediately in order to use it.

Bellamy sighed at Octavia while Clarke laughed, and he tossed Clarke his present for her. She opened it eagerly; Bellamy tended to pick out the best, most fun presents. This year, it was a watch, and it was _amazing_ : little paint supplies in miniature sat on the face of the clock. “Now that you’re an artist, and everything.” He shrugged.

“I love it,” she said, fumbling to put it on.

Her gift was lame suddenly in comparison, and she was hesitant to give it to him.

It was a puzzle, which, okay, she knew that puzzles _were_ lame, but Bellamy liked them, and it was the Colosseum, and it was _3D_. It seemed like fun when she saw it in the bookstore. He unwrapped it, stared at the cover for a second, and glanced at the bathroom before he grinned at Clarke.

“She’s in the shower,” he said.

“Right,” Clarke said.

“That means she can’t veto a puzzle,” he explained, and he shook the lid off the box, dumping out the pieces. Clarke laughed, leaning in to help him start to organize the pieces. It turned out that figuring out the pieces for a 3D puzzle was tough. It was fun.

Mostly, it was quiet while they worked. But they high fived when they got a tricky corner together, and “hey,” he said, pausing. She glanced at him. “You okay?”

She realized what he meant. “I’m okay,” she said. She smiled.

Bob Ross chose that moment to pounce on the pieces, batting at them, and making them skid off across the floor. Clarke laughed while Bellamy muttered under his breath, crawling under the sofa for the pieces, and remerging with giant dust bunnies in his hair.

Octavia groaned as soon as she saw the puzzle.

But they finished with the puzzle despite her complaints, and they opened the rest of the presents, and it was time to start on dinner; Bellamy cooked a ham while Octavia prepared homemade mashed potatoes the way Aurora liked, and Clarke made dessert.

They watched _A Christmas Story_ after, snacking on Clarke's brownies.

“I want to stay in this day forever,” Clarke decided.

But the day came to a finish, and break was over soon after, too. 

Only a week into the semester, she got a text from Lexa. _Meet for lunch_? Octavia saw, and scoffed, and tried to get Clarke to flick off the camera, and send the picture for a reply. It took Clarke a while to respond, but she did, agreeing to meet Lexa for coffee. 

She didn’t really know what was going to happen. 

She didn’t know what she was going to say, or what she wanted from Lexa. 

But Lexa knew what she wanted from Clarke. She was at the café when Clarke arrived, sitting at a table with two steaming cups, and she straightened in her seat at Clarke’s appearance. Clarke took off her coat, sitting, and “I’m sorry,” Lexa started. “I shouldn’t have done it.”

Clarke stared. She hadn’t expected an apology, but it was plain on Lexa’s face that she meant it.

“I don’t want to break up,” Lexa said. There was a question in her eyes, in the way her face seemed to soften with hope, with a plea. Clarke dropped her gaze to her hands.

She knew it was in her to forgive Lexa. 

It wasn’t like Lexa cheated on her, and what she’d done was awful, yes, but. 

Clarke knew who Lexa was, knew that she was ambitious, and selfish, and that she was bad at relationships, at expressing her emotions, or understanding another perspective, another person’s feelings. She’d known that from the start, and she’d dated her anyway.

If it’d been Octavia who’d done it, Clarke would’ve forgiven her.

Octavia wouldn’t have done something like that, but that wasn’t the point. She’d forgive Octavia for most anything at this point. But that came from a loyalty that Lexa hadn’t earned yet; that came from a love that Clarke didn’t think she’d ever really feel for Lexa.

She’d always known who Lexa was, but now she knew what that really meant. 

“I’m sorry, too,” Clarke said. “But I don’t think this is going to work. Us.” 

Lexa stared. “I see. I guess there’s no way to change your mind.”

“It’s pretty made up.” 

“Can I ask you a question?” 

Clarke nodded. 

“If it’d been Bellamy who’d done it, would you forgive him?”

“I’d never have to,” she said. 

It was quiet. 

“But this—” She shook her head. “This isn’t about that. It’s not about the portfolio.” 

Lexa scoffed. “It’s not?” 

“It hurts that you did what you did, I’m not going to lie. But even if you hadn’t, I don’t think we’d have worked in the long run. We care about different things, and—” She stopped. “There’s something that my friend’s mother told me before she died, and it’s something I think about a lot. It’s how I try to live my life.” 

“Go on,” Lexa said.

“Don’t waste your time with something if it isn’t what you want.”

Lexa scoffed, looking at her incredulously. “I’m the something you don’t want.”

“No, it’s not like—” 

“That’s exactly what it’s like. It’s fine. I think we both know what it is you _do_ want.” She raised her eyebrows at Clarke, daring her to argue. Clarke knew better than to try. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. 

She left, and checked her phone on the elevator. There were texts from Octavia, Monty, and Harper, asking Clarke what she was up to that night, and Octavia wanted to know about Lexa, too. But, honestly, she needed a night to herself. She needed to go for a run, to order a pizza for herself.

She texted Octavia. _I broke up with her_. _vegging out now to feel better._

 _Come by when you’re ready to drink_ , Octavia replied. _also_ , _I love you!_ Clarke smiled. 

\---

It happened on her way to the T. She came into the city to meet her aunt for their usual, monthly dinner, and it was only a little after eight when she thanked her aunt for the meal, kissed her on the cheek, and left the restaurant, planning to go to the apartment.

She took a shortcut.

Her head was bent, and her eyes were on phone.

“Not a word,” he ordered, stepping from the shadow of the building. The sight of the gun in his hand stole the breath from her, and Clarke stumbled slightly in shock, paralyzed. He wore something over his face, glaring at her through jagged holes in the black fabric. 

“I—I—”

“Give me your phone, your wallet, and your jewelry,” he growled.

She nodded, holding out the phone while it buzzed with a text from Raven. He grabbed it from her hand, shoving it in the pocket of his hoodie. Her hands shook when she tried to reach into her purse; she got a hold of her wallet, only to drop it. “I’m sorry,” she gasped.

Her heart was pounding wildly in her throat, making it hard to breath. 

“Pick it up.”

She did, and he grabbed it from her, and jerked his head at her wrist.

“Your jewelry.” She fumbled to take off the diamond tennis bracelet, and to take off her earrings, handing them to him. He shoved them into his hoodie, and he was going to leave. She was going to be okay. She drew in a gasping, shuttering breath. “The watch.” 

“What?” 

“Your watch,” he said. “Take it off.” 

Unthinkingly, she pulled her arm to her chest. “It’s not—it’s not worth—” 

“Give me the watch, bitch,” he snarled. 

Tears burned her eyes, and she pulled at the strap, managing to get it undone, and holding it out. He snatched it from her, and told her to turn out her pockets. “I’m not—it’s a dress,” she stuttered, but he swore at her, and said he meant her cardigan, and she turned out the pockets, revealing a tissue. 

“Get on the ground,” he said. 

She went to her knees.

“On your stomach, and count to a hundred. Don’t get up until you’re at a hundred.”

She lay on her stomach, and pressed her cheek to the gravel, blinking at her tears. She wasn’t able to see him now, but she heard his footsteps grow softer when he left. She counted, stating to cry in earnest around twenty,and a part of her wanted to get up, knew that he was gone, and it was safe.

But she _couldn’t_.

She got to a hundred. Her arms were shaky when she pushed up.

What was she supposed to do? He took her phone, and her _wallet_. Oh, God. He took her license, knew her name. She needed to go to the police. She crossed her arms tightly, starting for the main, _safe_ street, and breaking into a run. She needed to find a payphone. 

There were people on the street, going about their night. 

She shouldn’t have taken that shortcut, gone into that alley like an _idiot_. 

It turned out that she looked as upset as she felt, and two older, touristy women stopped her, asking what the matter was. She swallowed the tears in her throat, and explained. They gave her a phone to call 911, assuring her that it was going to be okay, she was safe. 

She talked to police, waiting for them to arrive, and showing them where it happened. 

They took her to the station to file a report. 

From the station, she called Bellamy. 

She could’ve called her aunt, but it wasn’t her aunt she wanted. 

Bellamy got his number when she was thirteen, which meant Clarke knew the number by heart, having learned it before she got a cell. His voice was wary when he picked up. 

“It’s Clarke,” she said. 

He was at that station in less than half an hour.

He made a beeline for her as soon as she breathed his name, catching his gaze. She was seated in a chair by an officer’s desk, and he squatted in front of her. “I’m okay,” she said. “They took my statement, but I have to talk to a sketch artist guy now. They told me it’d only be a minute.”

He nodded. “Okay.” 

“I have to, um. Cancel my credit cards, too, and get a new license.” 

“We can do that.”

“I have to get a new phone.” 

“We can go tomorrow.” His gaze searched her face, and he touched her knee. 

“He took my bracelet,” she whispered, “and my earrings and my—my watch.” The calm she’d managed to gather started to give way, looking at the concern on his face, having him there with her. “The watch you gave me.” Her vision blurred with tears. “He took it.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “I’ll get you a new one. Hey, hey, it’s okay, it’s—” 

But she was crying in earnest now, and he pushed up slightly, pulling her into his arms.

“He—” she gasped.

She squeezed her eyes shut, clinging to him, and he seemed to hold her closer, to hold her tighter. “You’re okay,” he murmured. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.” He ran his hand over the top of her head, pressing a kiss to her temple. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.” 

“I’m okay.” She sniffed.

He rubbed her back. “You’re okay,” he promised. 

They were at the station for close to an hour after that, but they were able to leave at last, and Bellamy kept an arm around Clarke’s shoulders while they walked to his Ford. She was glad that he drove. She didn’t want to take the T, and, well, it made her feel better to climb into his ancient, awful truck with the cracks in the leather of the seats. 

He’d owned this truck forever; it used to be Aurora’s.

Clarke liked how it hummed loudly when he turned the engine on, how it made her think about Aurora, and she liked that it was littered in crumpled sweet wrappers; Bellamy seemed to have replaced cigarettes with suckers. She cranked a handle on the door to roll down the window, and gave into the temptation to slide across the bench. 

She relaxed against Bellamy’s side. 

He grabbed a sucker from the bag on the dash, and gave her one, too. 

She called Octavia while he drove, and left a voicemail. Octavia loved to take those once a week, three-hour night classes, and she was in one tonight. Clarke called Raven, too, but decided not to bother Raven with a voicemail when she remembered that her friend was on a date with some T.A. that she claimed drove her crazy. 

In the apartment, Bellamy seemed at a loss. 

“Do you want me to make you something to eat?” he asked.

“I’m okay,” she said. She was. It took a little while, but she was feeling a lot better. “I think I want to take a shower, though. Just wash off the night, and everything.” He nodded, and said he’d pick up some ice cream while she was in the shower. She smiled. 

But as soon as she was in the shower, it was quiet, and— 

“Bellamy!” she shouted. “ _Bellamy_!” 

“Clarke?” His voice was muffled through the door. “What’s the matter?” 

She breathed out in relief that he hadn’t left yet. “Nothing, um. But I don’t—I don’t want you to leave to get ice cream. I don’t want to be at the apartment by myself.” She paused. “Actually, could you—could you come in? To the bathroom, and—and just talk to me?”

“Yeah, okay. Sure.” He opened the door slowly, came in.

“Thanks.” 

“No problem.” 

For a moment, it was quiet. She heard him shut the lid on the toilet. 

“The shop is going to sponsor a softball team,” he said. 

“What?” 

“Yeah, these little girls came into the shop this morning. They wanted Dave to sponsor their team in the local softball league, or whatever. Buy their jerseys, basically. They were, like, eight, nine, and he thought they were trying to sell him cookies at first, and he shoved a dollar at them, saying he wanted Thin Mints, and run along now.” 

Clarke snorted. “I don’t know how he manages to function at this point.” 

Bellamy’s boss at the shop was a burly older man with three missing fingers, the largest potbelly she’d ever seen, about three scraggly, wild white hairs on the top of his head, and a thick white beard that rivaled Santa Claus’s. He was going on eighty, and Bellamy claimed that he was good at his job when he wanted to be, but that was rare. 

“My money’s on cigars, Bud Light, and hatred for the Yankees,” Bellamy said. 

She laughed. 

“Anyway, I convinced him to do it. Said it’d be good advertising.” 

“You’re right,” she said. 

He continued to talk while she washed up, starting to describe the documentary he caught on TV about Tiberius, and he stayed with her until she turned the shower off. She changed into the pajamas that she kept in Octavia’s dresser, and stole Octavia’s slippers. 

He was ready for her in the kitchen with a cup of mocha that he’d made for her. 

She blinked at him in surprise. 

“It’s not like it’s hard to add cocoa to coffee,” he grumbled. 

She tapered her smile, and took the mug.

They decided to play cards. Bellamy didn’t say it, but it was like he knew that Clarke didn’t want to watch TV, that she needed something more distracting than that, something to keep her from thinking about that man, and what he could’ve done to her. 

They played Go Fish until Octavia burst into the apartment. “ _Clarke_!”

“I take it you got her voicemail,” Bellamy said. 

“I’m never turning my cell off in class again,” Octavia swore, pulling Clarke into a hug. 

\--- 

Clarke wanted to learn self-defense, and Octavia agreed to take a class with her, finding a six-week, super intense one that a woman named Indra taught. Indra liked to glare disdainfully at her students, and tell them in a low, scary voice that they were warriors. 

But it worked. They learned to fight. 

For the first time in a long time, Clarke felt good about everything in her life: her classes, her relationships, her ability to kick ass. Naturally, it didn’t last. It was a month exactly after Clarke was mugged that Octavia stormed into Clarke’s dorm, angry, breathing hard. 

“He punched Lincoln,” she said. 

Clarke blinked. “What?” 

“My _brother_ ,” Octavia snarled, “attacked my boyfriend.” 

Her face was furious, and her eyes were bloodshot, and she was a mess, looking ready to scream, and like she was about to cry. Clarke gaped at her, and Octavia explained that she was at a bar with Lincoln when Bellamy came in with his co-workers, and saw them.

He saw Lincoln kiss Octavia, and it was a disaster. 

Octavia paced Clarke’s room while she explained in a rush how after her brother _jumped_ Lincoln, and _broke his nose_ , she told Bellamy that Lincoln was her boyfriend, and had been since she met him in August, and Bellamy insulted Lincoln, telling Octavia that she wasn’t _allowed_ to date some tattooed, thuggish _pedophile_.

“He didn’t,” Clarke said.

“He did! He called Lincoln a _pedophile,_ Clarke! I’m twenty, and Lincoln is twenty-seven! I tried to tell Bellamy that, and he _scoffed_ at me. I told him I loved Lincoln, and he said I didn’t know what love was, then he tried to _drag_ me from the bar like I was six years old! I punched _him_ , and told him to go fuck himself.”

Octavia fought with Bellamy a lot, but Clarke knew this fight was going to be the worst. 

She was right.

She wasn’t there for the explosion that began the fight, but she was there for the silent, post-apocalyptic horror that followed. Octavia refused to talk to her brother, and he wasn’t about to apologize, meaning the silence went on, and on, day after day after day.

Octavia stayed at Lincoln’s for a week before she texted her brother.

She informed him via a _text_ that she was moving in with Lincoln. 

Clarke helped Octavia pack up, and carry her boxes from the apartment that Thursday while Bellamy was at work. “You know this is the kind of stuff you can’t come back from, right?” Clarke said. “Doing this only makes everything worse, and harder to fix.” 

“Whose side are you on?” Octavia snapped. “ _I’m_ your best friend.”

“I know, which is why I’m carrying your underwear to Lincoln’s truck right now, and why I know that you miss your bother, and you’re only going to miss him more the longer that this goes on.” She stared at Octavia, but it was useless. Octavia ignored her. 

It was the same when she tried to talk to Bellamy. 

“You need to apologize to her,” Clarke said. 

He scoffed. “How about you apologize for _lying_ to me?” 

“It wasn’t my place to tell you.”

“Right,” he said. “You picked your side. Now go back to it, and leave me the fuck alone to do my job.” He rolled under a car, and she stared angrily at his legs for a moment.

“You’re a dick,” she snapped, and she left the shop.

Truthfully, she understood why he was upset, and it annoyed her that Octavia refused to, that she refused to admit it would’ve been better to tell Bellamy about Lincoln from the start. Clarke was _positive_ that if Octavia apologized for it, Bellamy would apologize, too.

She knew he missed her.

But the truth was that his offense _was_ worse, and he _needed_ to apologize.

The semester began to draw to a close. Clarke fought with her parents about her plans for the summer, agreeing at last to do the internship at a hospital that her mother set up; it was her ticket to be allowed to stay in the city for the summer, and she took it grudgingly.

But she needed to find a place to stay, knowing that Bellamy’s wasn’t an option.

She was tempted to text Bellamy, though. To ask.

They hadn’t talked in weeks, and she _missed_ him, and she doubted he’d ever really turn her away, and refuse to give her a place to stay. But she knew, too, that she couldn’t _really_ ask. If she stayed with him, Octavia would never, ever forgive her for the betrayal. 

In the end, her search for a place lasted for a day.

Raven offered her a “shitty pullout couch” in her apartment, and Clarke was sold. 

Actually, she was beginning to spend a lot of her time with Raven. Octavia was her best, oldest friend, and she always, always would be. But it was impossible to avoid the fact that Octavia was in a long term, serious relationship, and it was starting to change things.

The days when Clarke shared the world with Octavia were over.

Summer came, and she got the package in the mail.

She frowned at first when she found the yellow, badly taped package on the doorstep of Raven’s apartment. She recognized the handwriting that spelled her address in block, capital letters, but didn’t know what in the world Bellamy needed to send her in the mail.

It was a watch.

She held it to her chest for a moment, and texted him.

 _sorry it took a while,_ he replied.

She stared at her phone, typing hesitantly. _I’m sorry we haven’t talked in a while._

 _what have you been up to?_ he asked. She smiled, and they texted for the rest of the night, catching up. She changed into her PJs between texts, and made her dinner, and they texted with their TVs on, flipping channels together, settling on _How I Met Your Mother_.

He brought up that youth softball team that the shop agreed to sponsor. 

_they made it to the championship, and invited us to the game._

_are you going?_ she asked. 

 _I figured I would. Dave isn’t about to. It’s tomorrow._  

She bit her lip, and asked him when, where. He replied instantly with the answer, making her smile, and she rolled over on her shitty pullout couch, tucking her hand under her cheek. Her watch pressed into her jaw, and she stared happily at his texts on her phone.

She arrived at the park early. He did, too.

He grinned at her with a peppermint between his teeth, and she grinned, too. His hair was longer, allowing curls to peek out from beneath his baseball hat. He hadn’t shaved in a while, and he was tanner; he always turned ridiculously dark, ridiculously fast at the start of the summer. Bastard. She burned like a lobster.

It wasn’t an inning into the game before he asked. “How’s Octavia?”

She glanced at him. “Good.” 

He nodded. 

“She misses you.”

“I’ll bet,” he said, bitter.

“She _does_.” 

He stared at the field, watching the game for a minute. “Do you like him? Lincoln.” 

“I do. He’s sweet. He _adores_ her.”

“We lived in the city before Octavia was born, you know.” 

She blinked. “Right.” She knew the story. Aurora came to stay with her mother’s cousin in their little, backwoods town when Octavia was a baby, and Bellamy was a kid, and it was supposed to be temporary, but her cousin got her a job, and when he died only a year later, he left her the house, and it became their home. 

“It was bad,” he said. 

She looked at him, but his gaze remained on the field.

“I was little, but I remember the way that guys used to treat my mom.” He swallowed visibly. “I don’t ever want a guy to treat Octavia like that,” he said. “I know that I shouldn’t have—” He shook his head. “I wasn’t trying to be an asshole. I was trying . . .”

“To be a brother,” she said. “I get it.”

He sighed, and looked away, taking off his cap to brush a hand through his hair.

“Lincoln isn’t a guy you have to worry about,” she said softly. “He’d never hurt her, or use her. And if a heart’s going to get broken in that relationship, it’s going to be his." 

He nodded. “Good.”

She went for it. “She should’ve told you about him.”

“Yeah.” 

“But you know you were in the wrong, right?”

He was silent. 

“She misses you, and that makes this easy. Say you’re sorry, and it’s over. This whole, _stupid_ thing is over. Tell her that you’re sorry for punching him, and calling him a pedophile, that you know it was inappropriate, and misogynistic, and that’s it. It’s over.”

“Do you think she’ll forgive me?”

“I know she will _._ ”

She allowed him to stew on it for the rest of the game.

They talked about other random things, about Bob Ross, and a book that Bellamy read. She told him stories from her internship, and they talked to the girls on the team for a minute after the game. But once they were on their way to the T, she cleared her throat.

“Let’s go to Lincoln’s,” she said. 

He pursed his lips. “She isn’t going to want to listen to me.” 

“She is, too. She misses you.” 

“If she misses me, why doesn’t she come to me?” 

“Because she’s too stubborn, which is your fault, because _you’re_ too stubborn, and _you_ raised her.”

He huffed.

“Come on. We’re doing it. You’re going to apologize to her, and, you know, it wouldn’t hurt to apologize to Lincoln, too. Then I bet she’ll apologize, and we can all go out bowling, or something.” He shot her a look, and she smiled, hooking her arm through his. 

They went to Lincoln’s. “This place is a dump,” Bellamy muttered.

“You live in a dump, too.”

He scowled, and Clarke knocked on the door. 

They heard footsteps immediately. Bellamy stiffened, and the door swung open. His face went hard, and it matched his sister’s when she saw who it was. She crossed her arms.

“May we come in?” Clarke asked.

Octavia stepped back, allowing them in. Lincoln was sitting at the table in the small kitchen alcove; he looked like a deer caught in the headlights when he saw them. 

“What do you want?” Octavia asked. 

Clarke resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It was like Octavia was _trying_ to make it as hard as possible for her brother, and, well, that was exactly what was going on, but it was unnecessary. Clarke didn’t need Bellamy to chicken out, get defensive, and refuse to apologize. 

“I’m sorry,” Bellamy said, talking through a locked jaw, gritted teeth. 

There was a pause.

“What are you sorry for?” Clarke prompted.

His face seemed to tighten. “For punching Lincoln, and calling him a pedophile.” 

Octavia nodded. 

It was silent. Clarke widened her eyes at Octavia. 

“I’m sorry, too,” Octavia said. She softened a little; the edge left her voice. “I should’ve told you about Lincoln before. I was . . . being immature, and inconsiderate of your feelings, and it was wrong of me to keep it a secret. Not that I didn’t have a good reason.”

Bellamy sniffed.

Clarke glanced at Lincoln. “Hey, Lincoln.” 

“Hey, Clarke,” he greeted, hesitant. 

“I think there’s something that Bellamy wanted to say to you, too.”

She paused, and glanced at Bellamy when he was silent, raising her eyebrows at him. He sighed, and turned pointedly to Lincoln. “I’m sorry I punched you, and called you a pedophile,” he said. “It was a dick move, and inappropriate, and misogynistic, and stuff.” 

Octavia snorted. “That doesn’t sound like a line Clarke fed you.”

“Like she didn’t feed you your lines.” Bellamy scoffed. 

Octavia pursed her lips, and glared at the wall. 

“It’s cool, man,” Lincoln said, clearing his throat. “We’re cool.”

Bellamy nodded, crossing his arms, and glaring at the floor, and Octavia continued to glare at the wall behind him. It was quiet. Clarke glanced between them. “Okay!” she said, clapping her hands together. “Who’s got plans for dinner? Italian? Italian? Italian?”

“I could go for some Italian,” Lincoln said. 

She beamed at him. “Great! We have reservations at Giacomo’s at seven o’clock.” 

\--- 

There was time to kill before the reservations that she made, meaning she was able to dress up a little. She put on a cute black dress that showed off her cleavage, texting Bellamy a selfie with the caption that he needed to dress up, too, and, also, to _show_ up. 

Or she was going to go to his apartment, and drag him out by his ear. 

He showed up; that wasn’t the issue.

Dinner was rocky to start.

They ordered their drinks, and their dinner, and were left to sit in stony, painful silence. Bellamy glared at his napkin a lot while Octavia tore the bread into pieces she like wanted to hurt the bread, and hurt everyone the bread loved, too. It was awkward at best.

Clarke struck up a conversation with Lincoln, asking him about his art.

“You like to draw, right?”

They got into a discussion about the mediums they liked, working with charcoal, and how to draw freckles without making the drawing look childish. Clarke’s attempts to include Bellamy in the conversation were about as successful as Lincoln’s efforts to pull Octavia in, which was to say they failed abysmally, but.

The food was good.

Lincoln asked Clarke about her internship. She told a story, and asked about his summer, what he was doing when he wasn’t off, you know, climbing latters, saving kittens, and fighting fires. He talked about the big, overnight hike that he was planning with Octavia.

Clarke knew about their plans, but she nodded, and listened, smiled. 

Octavia chimed in that they were going to go to Vermont on his motorcycle.

“Lincoln is teaching me to ride,” she said, talking to Clarke.

Bellamy paused. “You ride?” he asked.

“Not as much as I want to.” Lincoln shrugged.

Clarke grinned into her ravioli when Bellamy asked Lincoln about his bike, telling him about the bike he used to own, and how he was the expert on bikes that came into the shop where he worked, and they started to compare the merits of this bike, of that brand.

She wasn’t able to keep up with the conversation. It was boring.

But it was good. It was really, really good.

Octavia made Bellamy shoot beer from his nose when she told a story from her job at the pool, when she imitated Jasper, trying to explain his tardiness to their boss when he was high. Bellamy started to tell a story about when Jasper was high while Bellamy watched a documentary on sharks, and it turned out that Lincoln saw that documentary.

Clarke made Bellamy split a dessert with her, and they decided to go for drinks. 

On the street, Octavia knocked her shoulder into Clarke’s.

“You’re welcome.” Clarke smirked.

Octavia grabbed the back of Clarke’s neck, planting a loud, sloppy kiss on her cheek. 

Unsurprisingly, the bar was packed. Octavia started for the back to find a table while the boys trailed after her, having returned to their discussion on motorcycles, and Clarke headed for the bar. Her friends were easy to order for: any pale ale for Octavia, and basic dark beer for Bellamy. She was going to have to guess on Lincoln, though.

It took a minute to work her way to the bar, but she got an elbow in. 

The bartender started to turn, and Clarke opened her mouth, only to be _shoved_ to the side, and the offender wasn’t apologetic, rattling off his order. Clarke shot him a stink eye. 

“Asshole.” 

She glanced to her right to see a man with thick blonde hair, and he jerked his head at the guy on her left. She nodded. “I guess that’s why they warn you about Massachusetts,” Clarke replied. He raised his eyebrows at her. “The Massholes,” she said, and he grinned.

But his comment wasn’t only in camaraderie. “I’m Bobby,” he said.

She offered a polite, acknowledging smile, and returned her gaze to the bar.

He chuckled. “Okay. I guess that means I have to earn your name.” 

“It means I’m not really looking to give it out tonight,” she said.

“Give me a shot,” he replied, undeterred. “Can I buy you a drink at least?”

“I’m fine.”

He smiled. “Come on. Let me get you a drink.”

She grit her teeth, and an arm slipped around her waist to reach the bar. Bellamy’s chest pressed to Clarke’s back, boxing her in. It was clear that he was oblivious to her suitor, that it was crowded, and he was trying to order a drink, and sidling up to Clarke simply to get as close as possible to the bar.

But this jerk didn’t have to know that. She gave the guy a look. 

“My bad,” he muttered, turning away from her.

Clarke bit her lip to keep in her smile. She nudged Bellamy. “Martini.”

He nodded, and flagged the bartender to order. 

She leaned into him after a moment, and he took her weight like it was nothing, like it was normal. There was something about that ease that made her smile, that made it impossible _not_ to smile, something about that intimacy, and the fact that everybody in the bar saw them, and assumed that Clarke was his girlfriend.

They got their drinks, and he brushed his hand up her arm before he turned.

He led the way through the crowd, and she kept a hand on his shoulder, following him.

She couldn’t remember when she was last as happy as this, drinking, talking, and laughing, sitting with her knee pressed into Bellamy’s thigh under the table of the booth.

\---

The rest of the summer was like it used to be. Octavia continued to live with Lincoln, but she was at the apartment every other night again, bringing her boyfriend with her. 

Their group was their group.

They celebrated July 4th in the apartment, throwing poppers on the floor, and at Murphy, lighting sparklers that set off the alarms, and forced them to open every single window, toasting the fireworks that went off in the distance with sour boxed wine that Jasper liked. 

Things were good.

But at the start of the semester, things changed.

There was a knock on the door, and Bellamy rose up to his feet. “Tell me that somebody ordered pizza,” Jasper said. But it wasn’t pizza. It was a girl, and she was _gorgeous_ : tan and slim and with long dark hair, wearing a Led Zeppelin tank top and dark jean cut offs.

“This is Echo,” Bellamy introduced. “My girlfriend.”

Clarke stared.

“What?” Octavia said.

“That’s my sister,” Bellamy said, turning to Echo. “Ignore her.”

Echo laughed. “Nice to meet you,” she said.

Bellamy handed Echo a beer, and listed off their names for her.

It was lucky that Clarke was in Bellamy’s recliner; it made it possible for Echo to sit with Bellamy on the sofa. He draped his arm across the back of the sofa, allowing her to fold into his side. She rested her hand on his knee, toyed with the curls at the nape of his neck.

Octavia glanced incredulously at Clarke, but Clarke was dumbstruck. 

In all the years that she’d known Bellamy, she’d never known him to have a girlfriend. He dated, or, well, he flirted with girls, and slept with them. But he never, _ever_ introduced a girl to them, or seemed to be serious about a girl, calling her his girlfriend. 

Bob Ross wandered into the room, and Echo cooed at him, trying to pet him. 

Clarke clicked her tongue softly, subtly.

He turned to stare at Clarke for a moment, and leapt up onto the recliner, curling up in her lap. She was his mommy. Not some girl. Not even Bellamy’s new, beautiful _girlfriend._  

They learned that Echo worked at the bar with Bellamy, and their relationship was new. 

But it was a relationship. 

Their friends started to leave a little after midnight.

Clarke felt sick at the realization that Echo wasn’t going to leave. Originally, she planned to stay the night. It was easiest, and there was a toothbrush in the bathroom with her name on it, sheets that Bellamy kept on the bed in Octavia’s old, abandoned room for her. She wasn’t going to stay now, though. She couldn’t. 

Octavia stood to leave, and Clarke moved to her feet, too.

“You’re going,” Bellamy said, surprised.

She nodded. “I have a paper that I need to work on tomorrow, so.” 

“It’s late.” He frowned, and the implication was clear. It was late, and it wasn’t safe. 

“She’ll take the T with us, and stay at our apartment,” Octavia said. 

Bellamy stared, and it was clear that he wasn’t happy. It made Clarke feel worse that he was surprised, that he was upset. Had he really expected her to sleep in the next room over while he fucked his girlfriend? Was she really that much of a little sister to him that he didn’t think it would make her feel weird, or jealous? Yes. She was. 

Octavia hooked an arm through Clarke’s, marching her from the apartment. 

It helped a little that Octavia was disgusted with Echo. She ranted about her on the walk to the T, and on the T, and when they reached their apartment; Lincoln took a pillow to the sofa, allowing Clarke to curl up in bed with Octavia, and listen to her rant in the dark.

“She’s worse than Roma,” Octavia said.

Clarke frowned. “Who’s Roma?”

“That girl he used to mess around with when we were in high school.”

“Oh. Right.”

“I don’t see why she needed to _touch_ him in front of me. I’m his _baby sister_. How can she not see that it’s inappropriate for her to be all over my brother in front of me?” 

Clarke sighed. “It seems like he really likes her.”

“We’ll see about that,” Octavia growled. “I give her a week, and that’s _generous._ ”

She drifted off soon after.

It took Clarke a while.

Octavia was wrong. Echo wasn’t gone in a week, or in two. She stayed, continuing to hang around the apartment, to be Bellamy’s girlfriend. Yuengling showed up in the fridge, and Echo’s toiletries took up residence in the bathroom, and it was real. Official.

“Since when are you a guy with a girlfriend?” Octavia demanded.

Bellamy glared. “Since now.”

That was as far as the discussion went.

September faded into October, and Clarke learned that when she was a teenager, Echo helped to raise her three younger sisters, that she loved hockey, and boxing, and, oh, _fantastic,_ motorcycles, too, making it clear that she was, you know, _perfect_ for Bellamy.

\---

Clarke wanted to laugh at herself. She wanted to believe that she was a silly little girl with a crush, and she wasn’t _really_ bothered when Echo whispered in Bellamy’s ear, wasn’t _really_ hurt when Echo pushed her fingers possessively into his hair. But she was.

“It’s not that I don’t _like_ Echo,” she said, propping herself up on her elbow.

Raven nodded. “It’s that you’re in love with Bellamy.”

“I’m not _in love_ with him,” Clarke said. Raven arched an eyebrow at her, doubtful, and Clarke huffed. “I . . .” She dropped her gaze to the bedspread. “I don’t know how I convinced myself that he might like me, too. That I wasn’t crazy for thinking that he . . .” She shook her head. She _was_ crazy.

“It isn’t crazy to think he cares about you,” Raven said. “He does.”

“Not the way I care about him.”

Raven was quiet, but she looked at Clarke, and her gaze was soft, sympathetic. 

Clarke groaned. “I’m supposed to get over it, right? Just _move on_ , and be glad that we’re friends, and he’ll always be in my life, because I’m like another little sister to him?”

“That would be the right thing to do.” She paused. 

“I’m sensing there’s more,” Clarke said.

Raven sighed. “But you might not be able to. It’s not that easy. Feelings don’t magically go away. It takes time, and _space_ , and with the way things are between you guys right now, you’re never going to get that. I mean, you spend more time with him now than you do with Octavia.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is that it might be better just to ease off, not be such good friends with him.”

Clarke scrunched up her nose at Raven. “Is that my only option?”

“Tell him you’re in love with him.”

“You’re useless.”

Raven shrugged, and continued to paint her toenails.

Clarke tugged on a thread in the bedspread. “I don’t want to give him up.”

“I know you don’t,” Raven said. “But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s with Echo.”

It was quiet, and she dropped Raven’s gaze, knowing that Raven heard what she didn’t say, that she remembered the summer after their freshmen year. _He’s mine._ Clarke heaved a sigh, and flopped onto her back in despair, rolling to squash her face in a pillow.

He was with Echo. _But he was supposed to be with Clarke_.

No. He wasn’t. He never had been, and he was never going to be. She needed to forget it.

\---

She took Raven’s advice, avoiding the apartment, and finding ways to fill up her days.

Classes kept her busy, and she joined a dozen fun, random clubs.

She began to study in the library with Maya rather than on Bellamy’s sofa. She watched her weekly TV shows at Octavia’s, and spent her weekends at Raven’s. If her friends noticed that she avoided Bellamy’s, they allowed her to pretend they didn’t, and she was grateful. It was bad enough that she was the one single girl among them. She didn’t need them to pity her, the cliché who fell for her best friend’s brother. 

In November, she began to volunteer at a nearby elementary school.

They were without an actual, paid art teacher, and Clarke joined a group at Harvard that visited the school every other week to do simple art projects with the kids. It was more fun than Clarke would have thought, making her think it might be a good possible career.

She could still do her own art on the side, and it’d be something fulfilling, worthwhile.

It was the Sunday before Thanksgiving that she broke. She went to Bellamy’s.

She hadn’t seen him in over a _month_ , texting him sporadically at best, and it sucked. She missed him. Besides, she needed to ask his opinion about her new life plan. He was always annoyingly, unfailingly honest about stuff like this. If it were stupid, he’d tell her.

She expected that Miller was going to be there, and Murphy, too. She needed them to be.

She needed a buffer.

But she walked into the apartment, and stopped. It was a Sunday, which meant the place ought to be filled. But it was quiet other than the buzz of the TV, empty other than Bellamy, sitting in his recliner with a beer. His friends weren’t there. Neither was Echo.

“Where is everyone?” Clarke asked, startled.

He glanced away from the TV to look at her. “It’s great to see you, too.”

She winced. “Sorry. I was surprised.”

“I’m surprised, too,” Bellamy said. “I thought you were dead in a ditch, or something.”

She huffed, and started to unwrap her scarf, to take off her coat. “I know, I know. It’s been a while since I’ve been by. I lead a busy life, okay?” She tugged off her boots.

“Why have you deigned to bless me with your presence this evening?” he asked.

She was prepared for this.

“I’ve been studying my ass off for exams, and it’s starting to take a toll,” she said. It was the truth. “I need to make chocolate chip cookies, and eat them until my stomach hurts.”

He nodded. “Knock your socks off.”

But his lips were quirked up slightly, and her heart stumbled over a beat.

She knew in that moment that her attempt to get the space she needed to get over him was a bust. It was clear that in the time she’d been away from him, she’d only fallen _harder._

She got to work on the cookies, and it was quiet. Nice.

It was wrong to be as excited as she was to get Bellamy all to herself, right? She hoped it lasted, that his friends weren’t on their way. That Echo wasn’t about to walk in the door.

“How’s Echo?” she asked, trying to be cool.

“We broke up." 

She blinked. “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s fine.” 

She nodded. “Can I, um. Can I ask what happened?”

“I’m a douche, apparently.” He shrugged, and took a sip of his beer.

“Well, she’s not wrong,” Clarke said. 

He eyed her, and his mouth seemed to twitch. “I didn’t disagree with her.”

She turned away from him to take the tray from the oven, grinning stupidly at her cookies until she, you know, noticed the cookies. Or cookie. Singular. She stared at the giant amorphous cookie on the tray, realizing that she might have forgotten to double the flour.

Sighing, she began to scrape the cookie off the tray into a bowl.

She eyed the rest of the batter, and “fuck it,” she muttered. She spooned it into neat little balls, put the tray in the oven, and took her bowl of cookie blob scraps to the sofa.

Bellamy glanced at her, at the bowl. “You ever make cookies before?” 

“Shut up.”

They might have been short on flour, but her sticky cookie pieces were _delicious._

She pulled out her sketchbook after the last of the cookies were done, glancing around the room. Her eyes lingered on the cacti that Octavia bought when they moved in. Plants were everyday, right? She tapped her pencil against her chin. “I’m undecided,” she said.

“What?” Bellamy asked.

“I’m supposed to draw something that’s everyday, but.”

“Draw the sofa, or something.”

“That’s boring.”

“It’s everyday. It’s supposed to be boring.”

“I think the assignment is about finding the beautiful in the everyday.”

“My sofa isn’t beautiful to you?”

She rolled her eyes.

She decided to draw the funky tableside lamp that Octavia bought at a shady yard sale when they were freshmen. It gave her an excuse to play with shadows in the drawing. Bellamy glanced over while she worked. “The lamp?” he said. “That thing is hideous.”

“Yet you’ve kept it,” she replied.

He grunted, and pushed up from the recliner. “What do you want for dinner?” he asked.

“Lasagna, please.”

He cooked while she finished her drawing, and they ate the lasagna from the pan, sitting side by side on the sofa. She told him about the school were she volunteered, and the projects she’d done with the kids, and her idea to teach. “You’d be good,” he said, licking sauce from the corner of his mouth. She dropped her gaze to the lasagna.

She decided to call it a night when she began to nod off on the sofa.

But before she was able to sit up, Bellamy touched a hand to her ankle. “Hey.”

She blinked.

“I didn’t—I didn’t do anything to upset you, or make you want avoid me, did I?” His stare was soft, anxious, and his hand was warm where it held loosely to her foot.

“Oh. Oh, no. I really was just busy. That’s all.” She smiled.

He nodded, and squeezed her foot before he let go, sitting back. “Good.” He smiled, too.

\---

Her mother was silent on the subject over Thanksgiving, and for Christmas, too. But she came to visit Clarke in February, and she brought it up casually at dinner on Saturday, asking Clarke about the pre-requisites for medical school, and where she wanted to apply.

“You’re halfway through your junior year. It’s time to start thinking about this stuff.”

“I, um. Mom, I’m not going to medical school.”

That wasn’t news. Clarke declared art for a major _last year_ , andshe hadn’t explicitly _said_ that medical school was no longer the plan, but it was implied. She didn’t want to be a doctor. She thought her parents knew that, though her mother had grudgingly accepted it. 

It turned out she hadn’t.

“Tell me your plan isn’t to make your hobby a career, Clarke.” 

“That’s _my_ plan, yes,” Clarke said. 

“You don’t go to Harvard to get a degree in _art."_

Clarke scoffed. “You choose Harvard for me, Mom.”

“You wanted to go to Harvard since you were two years old!”

“It wasn’t like I was looking through brochures, and weighing my options, and deciding on a school when I was _two_! You dressed me up in Harvard clothes, and took me to Harvard games, and _told_ me it was what I wanted!” She shook her head. “I love Harvard. But it wasn’t my choice. You’ve never given me a choice.”

“Don’t make this about me, Clarke.”

“It’s not about you! That’s the point! You don’t get to pick _my_ future for me!”

Her mother wasn’t about to give up.

She lectured at Clarke for the rest of the night, raising her voice when Clarke tried to cut in, and insisting that Clarke needed a career, “and, I’m sorry, but art isn’t a _career_.”

The moment they left the restaurant, Clarke was done.

She turned on her heel, heading for the T while her mother sighed at her back.

She meant to return to her dorm. Her friends were busy. Octavia was in Virginia to meet Lincoln’s family, Raven was at a concert with Wick, and Bellamy was at work, and, okay, chances were that people were at the apartment, but Clarke wasn’t in the mood to hang out with Monty, Jasper, Miller, or Murphy.

But when the T pulled into the stop that was a block from Bellamy’s bar, she got off.

If she couldn’t go to his apartment to complain to him, she’d go to his work.

The place was packed, but she pushed her way to the bar, and wrangled her way onto a stool. She watched Bellamy for a minute, putting her hair up in a ponytail so that she wasn’t totally, embarrassingly overdressed, and his gaze caught on her when he turned.

It took him another few minutes, but he brought her a martini.

“Now that you’re legal,” he said.

She grinned. He refused to serve them when they used their fake IDs.

He was gone as quickly as he’d come, but that was okay; she’d known it’d be busy on a Saturday. It was one of the only nights he worked at the bar these days, keeping the job specifically for the tips that poured in on the weekends. She sipped at her martini, texting Octavia about her mother.

He made his way over to her as soon as it slowed. “What’s up?”

“My mother.”

She told him about the fight in pieces between customers. He refilled her glass, and gave her pretzels from the bag under the bar, and “I bet your dad’s on your side,” he said. “That’s why she started in on you when he wasn’t there.” She nodded. He was right, but.

It didn’t mean her mother wasn’t the worst.

They played cards when the bar started to empty around one, and she discovered that it cheered her up to trounce Bellamy at five card draw repeatedly. She pestered him into taking a shot with her, and pouring a beer for himself after. The bar closed at two, and “if I keep drinking alone, I’m going to feel as pathetic as I am.”

He started to close up with Colin, and Clarke eyed the dingy pool table in the back.

Colin left, calling a goodbye to Clarke, and Bellamy headed for her.

“Ready to go?” he said.

“I want to learn to play pool,” she replied.

He raised his eyebrows at her.

“Come on. It’ll be fun! You can teach me how, and then I’ll crush you.” She didn’t wait for him to answer, already hopping off her stool, and heading for the pool table.

“You know how Harper starts to nod off whenever she drinks, and falls asleep on the nearest flat surface?” Bellamy said, following her. “I think you should be more like Harper.” He paused, and she poked him in the stomach with a cue. “The energy you get from alcohol is annoying.”

“I’m going to be honest,” she said. “I wasn’t listening to a word you just said.”

“I’m shocked.”

“But I assume it was _yes, Clarke, I’ll teach you to play pool_! So. Let’s go. What’s first?”

He sighed. “One game,” he said, holding up a finger at her.

She beamed.

He explained the rules to her, modeling how to hold the cue, and how to take a shot, and let her take some practice shots. It seemed easy at first, but it definitely _wasn’t_. Those dumb little balls never went where she told them to, and it was starting to drive her crazy.

She kicked off her heels, and peeled off her cardigan.

“What are you doing?”

She threw her cardigan at him, and hiked up her dress. “Shut up. I’m concentrating.”

He laughed. “You can’t straddle the table.”

“I don’t remember that in your rules.”

She got one stupid, striped ball into a pocket.

He clapped, and she threw a fist into the air in victory

But, well, climbing _off_ the table wasn’t nearly as easy as climbing on. She backed up, and tried to dangle a leg off, but the skirt of her dress cut into her thigh, making it impossible. She dropped onto her side, flattening, and trying to shimmy off with her back to the table.

Bellamy was laughing his ass off.

“You could be useful, you know, and _help_!”

He grabbed her around the waist, and her hands grappled at his shoulders.

He hauled her off like it was easy, setting her on her feet. But it took her a moment to be steady on her feet, and his hands hovered at her waist when she rocked on her heels, digging her fingers into his shoulders. “Thank you,” she said, looking up to glare at him.

“You’re welcome.” He smirked.

It was impossible to stay peeved at him when he was standing like that, and looking like that, when his hair was messy, and his eyes were bright, and he was so close that it was possible to count the freckles on his face, and he was smirking that stupid Bellamy smirk.

Sudden warm, wonderful affection seemed to burst to life inside her.

She squeezed his shoulders. “You’re my _favorite_.”

“You’re my favorite, too,” he said, grinning. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, and drew away from her, picking up her cardigan. “Come on. I think it’s time to call it a night.”

She sighed. “Fine.” She took her heels from him. “Can we say I won?”

“Sure.”

“Ha. Told you I’d win.”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and she was glad, leaning into him, and letting him carry her weight. He smelled nice, too. “You told me you were going to crush me,” he said. “I wouldn’t call that _crushing_. I’d call it squeaking by to a minor, _minor_ victory.” 

“Shh,” she said. “We agreed that I won.”

His chest rumbled with laughter.

She curled against him as soon as he climbed into the truck, making him turn on the radio for her to sing along to. She made up the words that she didn’t know, humming through the lyrics that were fast, or tricky, and elbowed him in the stomach to make him sing, too. 

He followed her up the stairs of his building, keeping his hands on her hips.

“I know how to walk,” she said.

“Doubtful,” he replied.

He walked her into Octavia’s room, leaving her to sink onto the bed while he fetched her Tylenol. She kicked off her heels, pulled out her ponytail, and he was back; she hopped to her feet, holding onto his shoulder when she took the pills, and he told her to drink the rest of the water before she went to sleep.

She nodded. “Got it.”

He made to leave, only to pause at her smile. “What?”

“You’re my favorite, Bellamy.” She sighed. “My _favorite_.”

He chuckled. “I’ve heard.”

“I mean it. You always make everything _better_. Bad stuff, and boring stuff. _Everything_.”

She looked at him earnestly, and his grin seemed to fade. His eyes were softer, darker. Hesitantly, he tucked the hair that was loose from her ponytail behind her ear, and she couldn’t help but turn her face when his wrist brushed her cheek, couldn’t help but press a kiss to his palm. “Clarke.” His voice was hoarse.

“Bellamy.”

He swallowed visibly, and his eyes dropped to her lips.

She kissed him.

For a breathless, terrifying split-second, he was still against her. But he breathed in, and he opened his mouth, deepening the kiss; he stepped in closer, cupping her face, and tilting her head, and his tongue brushed over hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing and kissing him.

He broke away, breathing her name.

She kissed his cheek, his jaw, his mouth, and he ran his hands down her back, over her ass, pulling her hips into his suddenly, purposefully, making her gasp into his mouth.

Suddenly, they were in a frenzy.

She pulled on his t-shirt, bunching up the material in her hands, and he pulled away from her to tug it up over his head. She began to pull up her dress, and he helped; she raised her arms into the air, and he pulled the dress up and off, tossing it aside before he surged in, kissing her. Her calves hit the bed, and she sat, bringing him with her.

He sank to his knees, peeling off her tights, and kissing his way up her legs.

She breathed in sharply when he pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh, and she pulled on his shoulders, pulling him up. He came willingly, covering her mouth with his, and yanking her suddenly to the edge of the bed, settling her flush against him. She reached a hand behind her back to unhook her bra.

He helped her, pulling at the straps, and her bra tumbled to her lap, to the floor. 

His hands skated up her stomach to cup her breasts. 

She closed her eyes at the feeling, bringing her hands up to cover his, and panting into his mouth. He pressed a kiss to her parted lips, to her neck, and the hollow of her throat. His lips ghosted against the top of her breast, and his thumbs rubbed circles against her nipples, making her _throb_ at the emptiness between her thighs. He squeezed her breasts, sliding a hand to her back. 

She gasped his name when he sucked a nipple into his mouth.

She tightened her thighs around his waist, trying to get the friction that she needed. 

She sank her hands into his hair, tugging. “Bell, Bell,” she breathed. He lifted his head up to kiss her wildly in response, and she clutched his face, his shoulders, his arms, and reached between them for the buckle of his belt, tugging uselessly on the thing. "I can’t—” She giggled, and was dizzy for a moment. 

He grabbed her hands, stopping her.

She looked up to meet his stare, seeing that it was dark, serious.

“You’re drunk,” he said.

“Tipsy,” she replied. She tried to kiss him, but he turned, and her lips grazed his cheek. She felt his fingers flex against her hips.

“You’re drunk,” he repeated, dropping his head to her breast.

“I’m not,” she panted.

He groaned. “You _are_.” He breathed in deeply, kissing the side of her breast, and pulled away from her. She grabbed at his shoulders, but he shook his head. “Not like this.”

“Bellamy, no.” She was alarmed. “No, I—”

He cupped her face for a moment before he took her hands, kissing her knuckles.

It was over.

They weren’t going to do this.

“Why not?” she asked, feeling small, and stupid. She knew why not: because she was drunk, and he was drunk, and this wasn’t what he really wanted; he might’ve fucked a stranger when he was drunk, but not her. Little Clarke. Kid sister Clarke. But the question came out anyway.

“I don’t want it to be like this,” he said. “I don’t want one drunk night with you.”

“It’ll be good. I’ll make it good for you.”

He made a low, strangled noise. “ _Clarke_.” He squeezed her hands. “I want it to be _real_.”

She stared at him.

“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?” he said. “I don’t want one drunk night with you, Clarke; I want _everything_ with you, and I—I want to do it right. Okay?”

Did he mean it?

“Okay,” she said. She nodded. “Okay, yeah.”

“Just—get under the covers, and go to sleep, and we’ll talk later. We’ll figure it out.”

She nodded, scooting onto the bed, and pulling at the covers. Bellamy helped her pull the sheets up over her, and she blinked at him. “D’you want to cuddle?” she asked, hopeful.

It was okay to cuddle when you were drunk, right?

He chuckled, and shook his head. “My willpower isn’t that strong.”

He leaned in suddenly, holding her face, and kissing her on the mouth. It was possessive, and bruising, and breath-taking, and she gasped when he drew away, murmuring the worlds into her lips. “In case you don’t remember this in the morning.”

“I will,” she swore.

He nodded, and stole a much softer, much quicker kiss. “Go to sleep.”

She watched him go, saw him disappear into the dark when he switched off the light, and closed the door, leaving her in the quiet. But she wasn’t going to be able to sleep. How could she sleep after that? She was going to wait until it was morning, and she was sober, and she was going to jump him, and kiss him, and keep him.

She rolled over, and her eyes were heavy.

She glanced at the clock. It was already 3:52. She closed her eyes, clutching the sheets.

\---

Her head was stuffy when she woke, thudding a little when she turned to check the clock. She swallowed, cringing at her dry throat, and the way her tongue was like some fuzzy dead animal in her mouth. Her eyes found the glass of water that sat on the bedside table.

She gulped it down eagerly, and kicked off the covers.

She was only in her underwear, which, weird, but she must not have wanted to sleep in a bra. She grabbed the pajamas that she kept at the apartment, pulling them on quickly. 

She wandered from the bedroom, seeing Bellamy at the stove in the kitchen.

He noticed her. “Hey.”

She grunted at him, and continued on her way to the bathroom.

She was trying to remember how she ended up like this.

She knew that she went to the bar after her mother was a bitch, and she remembered that Bellamy served her a martini, and that she made him play cards with her. She frowned. Things were fuzzy after that. Bellamy would’ve gotten her to the apartment, and put her to bed. That water by the bed was definitely, definitely his doing.

She washed her face, putting her hair up in a ponytail, and looked at her reflection.

What the hell was that?

She frowned, and leaned in to look at the round, reddish mark on her neck. She tilted her head, touching the spot with her finger. Her eyes went wide, but she was certain. 

That was a hickey. Oh. _Oh._

In a rush, there were memories where there weren’t a moment before: kissing him, and the heat of his hands on her back, his lips on her neck, and on her breast, and when he took her hands, told her that he wanted it to be _real_. The memories were blurry, muddled, but. She remembered.

Did he? He wasn’t drunk. He remembered. That wasn’t the question. _Did he regret it?_

Had he meant what he told her?

 _Had_ he told her, or was that a dream that got mixed into reality?

She grabbed a brush, fixing her hair, and redoing her ponytail. She brushed her teeth, and rooted through the drawers in the bathroom until she found chapstick. She checked her reflection, and the improvement was minimal, but this was as good as it was going to get.

She took a slow, deep breath, and left the bathroom, heading for the kitchen.

“Hey,” she said.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Morning.”

It was quiet.

He flipped a pancake, and left it to brown on the stove in order to turn, picking up a plate that was stacked with pancakes, and handing it to her. She smiled, dropping his gaze quickly, stupidly. There was bacon on the plate, too, and Bellamy slid the honey across the counter to her.

“You’re the best,” she said, sitting on a stool. She paused. “So, um.”

His back was to her while he flipped the pancake.

She bit her lip. “My memories from yesterday are fuzzy at best.”

He turned. “I figured,” he said, and his face was blank. 

She knew in that moment what he planned to do, and he couldn’t. She wouldn’t let him. He wasn’t allowed to pretend that nothing happened just because he thought she didn’t remember. She might not remember everything, or remember it clearly, “but I remember that we made out, and started to get naked, and nearly had sex.”

He stared at her. “Do you regret it?”

“It depends,” she said. “You said—” She stopped. He was silent, and she remembered the way he took her hands last night, and “I wanted it,” she breathed. “I still want it. I want _you_.” She held his gaze, and her heart pounded wildly, leaving her shaky, uncertain. “I’m not sure, but I thought you said—”

“Do you want to go on a date?” he asked.

She blinked. “Yes.” 

“Okay.”

It was quiet.

She swallowed thickly. “When?”

“Tonight?”

“Okay.” She nodded.

“I’ll make us a reservation, or whatever.”

He turned away from her abruptly, moving to take the smoking, burning pancake off the stove. She dropped her gaze to her pancakes, and pressed a hand to hear her heart. She smiled. He’d said it, and he’d meant it, and she glanced up to see the curve of a smile on his lips while he scraped the pancake off the griddle.

She hopped off her stool, and rounded the counter to hug him from behind.

He was startled, but she rested her cheek on his back, and he relaxed.

“Let me guess,” he murmured. “You’re going tell me that I’m your favorite.”

She huffed, releasing him, and allowing him to turn. There was a stupid, shit-eating grin on his face, and she meant to glare at him, but laughter was warm in her chest, and it tugged on her lips. The kitchen was quiet suddenly, and he brushed a hand over her arm.

She wanted to kiss him.

“I’m really excited for our date tonight,” she said.

He nodded. “Me, too.”

Her phone went off. It was the ringtone for her mother. Clarke rolled her eyes, making Bellamy chuckle, and went to fish it from her purse. Bellamy was finished with the pancakes by the time Clarke was finished with her mother, and they ate together. She left the apartment after. She needed to shower, and nap away her hangover.

Regularly, she’d do both at the apartment.

But this was different. Bellamy was going to pick her up at seven for their date.

She called Octavia on the T.

If anything was going to happen with Bellamy, it needed to start with the knowledge that Octavia wasn’t going to hate them for it. Clarke needed Octavia to be okay with this, needed to know now if she wasn’t, so that she could stop it before she got her hopes up. Not that her hopes weren’t already up, but.

“Hold on!” Octavia answered, and she was gone.

Clarke sighed. Octavia tended to answer the phone like that a lot. 

“I’m back. What’s up?”

“I, um. I need to talk to you about something.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. It isn’t—” She paused. “I have to ask you something.”

“Okay, weirdo. What is it?”

“Can I go out with your brother?”

It was quiet.

“I—we—we thought we might go out tonight,” Clarke said. “On a date. I got drunk last night, and I kissed him, and it escalated, but we didn’t have sex! We didn’t, and if this isn’t okay with you, then I’ll put a stop to it right now. I mean, I know you aren’t big on his girls, and—”

“I’m sorry, are you joking right now?”

Clarke swallowed. “Um, no. I’m—I’m serious.”

“ _Clarke_.” Octavia made a loud, exasperated noise. “I hate the girls my brother picks up to scare them off. I don’t want them to get ideas, ‘cause I’ve been saving him for _you_.”

“What?”

“I’ve been waiting for you guys to get your shit together, and _get together_.”

“Oh.”

“You’re an idiot,” Octavia said. “Honestly, Clarke.”

“How was I supposed to know?”

“I didn’t think I was being subtle about it. But you require me to be as blunt as possible. Fine.” She cleared her throat. “You have my blessing. Go forth, and fuck my brother.”

Clarke choked on a laugh. “You’re the worst.”

“I love you, too,” Octavia said. “I’ve got to go. Have fun! Use a condom.” She hung up.

\---

She texted Bellamy in the afternoon to ask him how fancy she needed to dress, and he responded with a simple, mostly unhelpful _fancy_. She tried on every single thing she owned, deciding eventually to turn to Maya for help, and her roommate lent her a dress.

She wanted to wear something that Bellamy hadn’t seen before.

Maya tended to buy cute, bookish stuff, but Clarke added heels, lipstick, and jewelry, and was fiddling with her hair when Bellamy texted that he was at the door of her building.

She was glad she glitzed up the dress.

Bellamy was in a _suit_.

She gaped at him, and laughed a little. “Oh, my God.”

He cleared his throat, and adjusted his tie pompously, smirking at her.

“I didn’t know you owned a suit,” she said.

He shrugged. “I needed to go to the bank once.”

“Well, you look good. I mean, you look really, _really_ good.”

“You, too,” he said. “You look really—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Good.”

“It’s Maya’s. The skirt’s fun. Look.” She spun, making the skirt billow up at her knees.

He grinned, and nodded his head a little. “Cool.”

She flushed. “Yeah, so.”

“These are for you.” He thrust a bouquet at her. 

“The little grape flowers!” she exclaimed. “My favorite.” She pressed her nose into them for a moment, smiling up at him. They grew in bunches in her yard at home, and she loved them, used to pick them, and draw them, and twist them into her hair.

He nodded. “Do you want to—?”

“Yes! Let’s go.” She fell into step beside him, heading for his truck.

“I want you to know that the florist judged me when I asked for little grape flowers.”

She snorted. “I’m sure that must’ve been tough for you.”

“Last time I go to the florist. From now on, I’m pulling them up from somebody’s yard like a regular person.” He opened the door of his truck for her, giving her a hand up. 

“Just make sure you cut off the roots before you give them to me.”

He scoffed. “Obviously. I’m not an animal, Clarke.”

She grinned, and he shut the door, going around the truck to get in on his side.

She was tempted to tell him about her conversation with Octavia on the drive, but it made her nervous suddenly to think about the implication, and his reaction. Instead, she told him simply that she talked to Octavia, and she was totally cool with them going on a date.

The restaurant _was_ fancy. It was French, and _expensive_.

Bellamy stared at the long, fancy wine list. “Do you want to get a bottle?” he asked.

She nodded. “Sure.” 

She picked it, ordering, and trying the glass that the waiter poured.

They looked at the menu, and she watched the frown grow on Bellamy’s face. “Don’t the French eat chicken?” he muttered, and a woman at the table next to them glanced disdainfully at him. He hunched up his shoulders in reply, and glowered at the menu.

“How’d you pick this place?” Clarke asked.

“Google.”

“The wine is good.”

He nodded. “Tastes like, ah. Rotted grape juice. That cost me my first born child.”

She laughed. “We didn’t have to get it,” she said. 

“No, um. It’s good. I like it.”

The waiter came to take their order.

Clarke ordered, and the waiter turned to Bellamy. “Can I have, ah. This?” Bellamy pointed at something on the menu, and the waiter frowned slightly, leaning in. He nodded, saying the word slowly, enunciating, and Bellamy’s jaw tightened. “Thanks.” 

The waiter left, and it was quiet.

“Do you know what you ordered?” Clarke asked. 

“Is that important?” 

She smiled incredulously at him, and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Why are we at this restaurant?” It was a place her parents would love, a place her aunt would take her to. 

“I thought you liked, you know, wine, and—” 

“I do, but. Bellamy, _this_ place?”

He sighed. “I was trying to—” He cut off, and looked away from her, shaking his head.

She understood, and it made her insides go warm, made her want to hug him, and never let him go. This boy. This stupid, grumpy, _wonderful_ boy. “Let’s ditch.”

He glanced at her. “What?” 

“Let’s _ditch_. Come on. I know you don’t want to eat what you ordered, and I might not mind what I got, but I’d prefer a burger. Like a really bad, greasy one.” She grinned. “Let’s leave a twenty for the wine,” she whispered, “and we’ll take the bottle, and run.”

He stared at her.

She raised her eyebrows at him, and he reached in his pocket abruptly, tugging a twenty from his wallet. She grinned, and glanced around to be certain that the coast was clear.

He pushed to his feet, and she scrambled to follow, grabbing the wine.

He snagged her hand, pulling her after him, and they made a dash for the front, trying to walk slowly, trying to smother their laughter. They failed, breaking into laughter, and startling the hostess when they burst from the restaurant, and broke into a run on the sidewalk. They made it a block before they stumbled to a stop, leaning into the brick of a building, and Bellamy tugged Clarke into his chest.

She pushed up on her heels for a moment to press her smile into his cheek.

He grinned, squeezing her hip, and she took a swig from the bottle.

“Okay, Bonnie." He smirked. "What’s the plan?”

They ended up at a Wendy’s, taking his truck to the window to order a feast. They ate on the drive from the city, squeezing ketchup onto a napkin for their fries. Clarke traded her cheeseburger for his spicy chicken wrap, and they shared the chicken nuggets, and the chili, and the baked potato.

He pulled the truck off at an overlook. 

It turned out that he planned for this. He pulled a blanket from behind the seats, spreading it across the bed of the truck while she watched, polishing off her Frosty. She smirked when she saw he brought a _pillow_ , too. “I feel like I’m in a movie,” she said, climbing up.

“Shut up.” 

“Now you’ve ruined it.”

They finished the wine that way, sitting in the bed of the truck. 

She drank the last of the bottle, and tugged the twist from her hair before she lay back, shifting until she was comfortable. She looked up. “This is going to sound like a line from a movie, but I miss the stars when we’re in the city. They make me think of home.”

He lay next to her. “Do you know that _planet_ comes from Greek?”

“What’s it mean?”

“Wanderer.”

“I don’t know why, but that’s sad.”

“Space always seemed a little sad to me,” he said. She glanced at him, and saw that he was looking up at the sky. “Hey. See that?” he said, pointing. She followed his gaze. “That star? That constellation is Peruses, and that white star? It’s Algol. Medusa’s eye.” 

“I know her. Snakes for hair, right?” 

“Right.” 

He told her about Peruses, and Medusa, and he drew the shape of the constellation in the air. She wasn’t really able to see it in the sky, but she nodded, and looked at him, propping herself up on her elbow. “This lesson under the stars with the history, and the romantic Greek mythology. This is how you impress the girls?” 

He folded an arm under his head, glancing at her. “I guess.” 

She raised her eyebrows at him.  
  
“You’re the only girl I’ve ever tried it on. But you’re the only girl I’ve ever really wanted to impress, so.” 

Her heart jumped, missing a beat, and thumping so quickly, so suddenly that she felt it in her throat. She bit her lip. “You’ve liked me for a while,” she said. It was a question. 

“Yeah.”

“Can I ask how long?”

He blew out a breath. “I don’t know. I guess it started with Finn, and when I saw him with you. Up until he came into the picture, you were, you know, Clarke. Octavia’s friend, and I loved you for that, and, well, you were great, but. You were, what? Eight?” 

She huffed. 

He grinned. “Anyway. He showed up, and he was your boyfriend, and I—I wanted to punch his smug little face. I told myself it was, like, totally platonic, big brother protective instincts, but it wasn’t. Then I hated myself for a while, ‘cause I was a creep with a thing for my sister’s friend.” 

She shook her head. “I can’t believe you’ve liked me all this time. Since _Finn_.”

“It’s the truth. It took a while, but I gave up on trying to get over you eventually, and tried to be better. Like be a boyfriend, and get good at boyfriend stuff. In case.” He smiled, and it was slightly cocky, slightly sheepish, and so very, very _him._ “In case a few years down the road, I got my shot with you.” 

“Bellamy,” she whispered.

“I wasn’t great at it obviously.” He cleared his throat, and looked up at the sky. “I guess it’s hard to be a good boyfriend when you’ve got a thing for a girl who’s not your girlfriend. That’s how Echo put it, although she threw in some expletives. Gave it color.” 

She laughed a little.

“What about you?” he asked.

“I’ve always had a little thing for you," she admitted. "It started to creep up on me for real, though, in college. Then I found out that you’d slept with Raven. It was that summer that we became friends, Raven and I. She let it slip, and—” She shook her head. “And you know what I let slip?”

He looked at her.

She turned, shifting onto her side, and reaching for his tie, curling it around her hand. “That you’re mine.”

He didn’t take his eyes off her when he pushed up on his elbow.

She closed her eyes in the breath before he kissed her.

She surged into the kiss, opening her mouth, and tugging on his tie to pull him up, to pull him to her. He sat up completely, brushing his hand against her thighs, and she shifted, settled in his lap, straddling his hips. He gripped her hips, and his fingers pressed into her ass, making heat pool in her stomach.

She rocked into him, and his breath hitched against her mouth.

He tilted his head, pressing his lips to the underside of her jaw, along her throat, and she arched her neck, wrapping her arms around his shoulders to pull him in closer, and sinking her hands greedily into her hair, gasping for breath when his teeth flashed against her neck. She opened her eyes. “Bellamy.” 

His nose grazed the column of her throat. “Clarke.”

“I have a feeling there’s going to come a day when I fuck you in this truck." 

His laughter was warm against her neck.

“But—”

He lifted his head. “I know,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Come on.” 

She moved off his lap, and they climbed from the bed of the truck, grabbing the blankets, the pillow, and her heels, and tossing them into the truck before they got in. She was shaky, and excited, and overwhelmed, and she was happy, so, so incredibly _happy_. She pressed into him, hooking an arm around his. 

The drive was nearly half an hour, but it seemed to pass in a blur.

She made him tell her the stories about the constellations that he’d planned to. She liked to listen to him talk about mythology, liked the way that he told the stories, making her laugh when he decided to add voices to one, and his voice squeaked to imitate Aphrodite.

Quiet settled when they pulled into the lot of the apartment.

He put the truck into park, and looked at her.

She bit her lip, and his gaze dropped to her mouth before he reached out, taking her chin in his hand, and brushing his thumb against her lip, pulling it gently from between her teeth. She kissed the tip of his thumb, and he made a noise in his throat when her tongue grazed his thumb; his hand slid around to the back of her head, and he kissed her.

She broke away, and giggled when he leaned in further.

“Come on,” she breathed.

They scrambled from the truck, and Clarke grabbed his hand this time, dragging him after her while they took the stairs of his building at a run, and fumbled to unlock his door, tumbling in. She rose up on her tiptoes to kiss him immediately, and he shoved the door shut before his hands went to cup her face, pulling her in closer.

She moved her hands between them to push off his jacket.

He helped her, shrugging it hastily, and they unbuttoned his shirt together. She broke away from the kiss when she saw that he wore an undershirt under the button-up.

“Did you mean to make this as difficult as possible?” she asked. 

He grinned, and pressed a kiss to her mouth before he yanked his shirt up over his head.

She ran her hands up his stomach, gripping his shoulders to propel herself up for another long, desperate kiss, and they stumbled a little towards his bedroom. His hands were everywhere, spanning her back, and smoothing over her ass, brushing up her arms to curl into her hair, moving to the zipper of her dress.

She turned, lifting her hair up for him.

He unzipped the dress, and unfastened the clasps on her blue strapless bra while he went. The dress slipped off, and her bra, too, pooling at her feet, and Bellamy pressed up against her from behind. She shivered when she felt his lips on her back, ghosting kisses along her spine, and he wrapped her arms around her when he kissed her shoulder.

She tilted her head back, shifting so that she was able to kiss him. 

He turned her in his arms to deepen the kiss, and his hands went to her hips, to her thighs. She hugged his neck, and he hoisted her up; she wrapped her legs around his waist, continuing to kiss him while he carried her to his bedroom, and lowered her onto the bed. 

“I like when you carry me,” she murmured, scooting up the bed, and he came with her, settling in between her legs, kissing her. “I think you should carry me everywhere.”

He pressed a kiss to the side of her breast, rising up to his knees. “I can do that.”

There was a lamp on by the bed, and it cast the room in soft, glowing yellow. She was glad, staring up at him above her, drinking in the look on his face when he looked at her. 

He hooked his fingers in the edge of her tights, and of her underwear, and paused. 

She nodded.

He tugged them down slowly, and she bent her knees to help him, getting them off. She lowered her feet to the bed, trying to steady her breathing despite how nervous she suddenly was, how young and shy and exposed she felt, lying out in front of him, _naked_.

He kissed her. 

“Earlier, when you came out of your dorm—” He kissed her neck. “—I thought you were the most gorgeous fucking thing I’d ever seen.” He kissed her nipple, her stomach. “But now, seeing you in my bed—” He kissed the crease of her hip, and his hands smoothed up her thighs, spreading them. His nose brushed her entrance, and she shuddered, meeting his gaze when he looked up at her. “—you are the most fucking gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen,” he breathed, and he pressed a kiss to her slit. 

She gasped his name, closing her eyes when his thumb parted her folds.

He swirled his tongue against her clit, sucking it between his lips, and want pooled in her stomach; it was impossible to keep her eyes open, and flexed her fingers against the sheets for purchase while he licked his way into her, making her clench her thighs around her head. He shifted, sliding his arm around her thigh to hike it up.

“Bellamy,” she whispered.

He hummed in reply, and the vibrations made her breath stutter, and catch. 

His thumb was rubbing in circles against her clit, making the heat in her belly coil tighter, and tighter. She cried out when he pushed a finger into her, continuing to circle her clit with his thumb, and she fisted a hand in his hair when he tilted his face to press soft, wet kisses to the inside of her thigh while he fingered her, pushing in a second.

He was a _tease_ , and she tugged on his hair, whining his name.

He chuckled, and his breath washed hotly against her, making her keen. She swore, and he snaked a hand up to cup her breast; she covered his hand with her own, squeezing.

“Do you know how good you taste?” he asked, and she breathed in sharply at the words, closing her eyes. “I’ve wanted to taste you for _years_ , Clarke,” he panted, nuzzling her thigh, “wanted to bury my face in your pussy, eat you out until you cried out my name.” 

Her breath started to come in short, gasping bursts. 

His nosed at her clit, murmuring, and flattening his tongue against the bud, sucking it into his mouth, sucking it purposefully now, and she cried out, arching off the bed.

He continued to lick at her opening while she came, drawing it out.

She opened her eyes when he sat up, and smiled lazily at him. “That was nice.”

He grinned. “Good.”

She crooked a finger at him, and he leaned in to kiss her on the mouth. 

His erection brushed against her still sensitive, still throbbing center, and she realized that they hadn’t managed to get his pants off yet. She began to undo his belt, pushing his trousers over his hips, and his boxers, too. He pulled away, moving away from her to sit up, and tug them off. 

She snorted. “You haven’t taken off your shoes yet?”

He reached for his shoes. “I’ve been busy.”

She shook her head at him, and sat up, pushing on his chest to make him lay back. She undid his shoelaces, and tugged his shoes off, and his socks, turning to pull off his trousers. She crawled up him when she’d gotten him naked a last, and straddled his hips while he twisted, and fumbled to get a condom from the table by his bed. 

“You ready?” he said, tearing open the square.

She took the condom from him, and rolled it on. “For a few years now,” she replied.

He squeezed her hips.

She placed a hand on his chest for balance, using the other to guide him to her entrance, and rose up on her knees to sink onto him slowly. His stare burned into her, and she breathed in, pausing when he was in her completely, filling her up. “Bell,” she whispered. 

He nodded, and his hand stroked her side.

She began to move over him, rising up, and sinking onto him, and he pushed up onto his elbows when she leaned in, meeting her for a kiss. She gripped his shoulders, and he pulled her to his chest, shifting off his elbows, onto his back, and bringing her with him. 

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured. 

She nodded. “You, too.”

He rolled them, pulling out; she canted her hips up to meet his when he pushed back in.

“We’re having sex,” she said. “Bell, _we’re having sex._ ”

“Is that what this is?”

She shoved at his chest.

He chuckled. “I know, babe,” he breathed. “I _know_. It’s not a dream. I’m inside you, Clarke. I’m fucking inside you, and it’s perfect.” He kissed her. “ _You’re_ perfect.”

“ _Bell_.” She hugged his shoulders, and he kissed her cheek, her jaw, burying his face in her neck while he fucked her. It built in her slowly until she was gasping for more, pulling up her legs to dig her heels into the dimples above his ass, and he picked up his slow, steady pace, lifting his head to kiss her mouth, to look at her.

She started to come as soon as he moved a hand between them to thumb at her clit.

He went with her, losing his rhythm, and staring at her with dark, wild eyes.

He pulled out of her, rolling onto his side, and they lay like that for a moment, panting at the ceiling side by side. She turned her head to look at him, tucking her hand under her cheek. “Hey.” He looked at her, and she smiled, scooting up when he leaned in for a kiss. 

“Hey,” he said, murmuring into her mouth. 

She pressed her nose against his.

He rose up after a beat, disposing of the condom, and rolled onto his side to face her. 

She skated her gaze over him, and he let her look, staying quiet while her eyes traced his chest, his stomach, lingering on his hips, and his dick, and his thighs. Eventually, she drew her gaze up to look him in the eye. “You’re doing a good job so far,” she told him. 

“Doing what?” 

“Being a boyfriend.” She dipped her head to press a kiss to his stomach.

He smiled softly, slowly, and reached a hand up to push the hair from her face. His smile became a grin suddenly. “Give me about ten minutes, and I’ll do a good job again.”

She snorted, pushing him onto his back, and nestling into his side.

His arm came around her. 

“Bellamy.”

He was drawing a soft, random pattern on her back. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Just.”

“Just what?" 

“Nothing. I just—I’m happy, and I wanted to say your name.”

He laughed a little. “Okay.”

She smiled, turning her heard slightly to press a kiss to his chest. His heart beat steadily under her cheek, and he resumed his touch on her back, grazing the tips of his fingers over her skin. She thought about her flowers. She left them in the truck, and she’d have to get them, put them in a vase.

She was going to keep the empty wine bottle, too.

She wanted to remember this date, and this night, wanted to remember when it started.

\---

She woke up in the morning when a phone went off. Bellamy groaned, trying to pull the covers up over his head, and Clarke rubbed her eyes, glancing at the clock. It was his phone going off, and it stopped after a moment. She closed her eyes, sighing at the quiet.

The phone started to go off again. She kicked Bellamy until he answered it.

“What?” he growled. There was a pause, and he thrust the phone at Clarke. “It’s for you.”

She took it hesitantly. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Clarke! How’s my brother’s bed? Plush? Comfortable?”

“I hate you,” Clarke said.

“You aren’t allowed to hate me. I’m your boyfriend’s sister.”

“Did you actually need something?”

“Nope!”

Clarke hung up the phone on her, tossing it to the bottom of the bed. She bunched up the pillow under her cheek, and her gaze fell on Bellamy, drinking in the sight of him. It wasn’t that she hadn’t seen him in the morning before, hadn’t seen him with messy hair, a five o’clock shadow, and his face slackened with sleep.

But this was different. Better.

He sighed, and opened his eyes. “My sister needs to learn about _boundaries_.” 

“I’ll take the pot calling the kettle black for a hundred, Alex.” 

He glared at her, but it was ruined when his lips quirked up, and she smiled, too, turning her face slightly into her pillow. He reached out, brushing his fingers through her hair, tucking it behind her ear, and his hand trailed over her shoulder, down her back, settling on her hip. He leaned in to kiss her.

She scrunched up her nose. 

He paused. “What?”

“Your breath,” she told him. 

“Do you have a problem with my breath?” 

“It’s gross.”

He nodded. “I see.”

His grin came slowly, and she realized what he was going to do only a moment before he tackled her, breathing hotly over her face. She squealed, and kicked at his legs to try to get out from under him, but he pinned her to the bed with his weight, and she was left to try to turn her face away from him.

She laughed, pushing at his face, and was able to get a knee up. 

He jerked when she kneed him in the side, and she crowed in triumph, rolling them over, and trying to pin _him_ to the bed. But it was impossible, and he rolled them again, ghosting his hands against her sides to _tickle_ her; she screamed, batting at his hands, and they tumbled off the bed.

Clarke landed on Bellamy, and Bellamy landed with his back on the ground.

The breath was knocked from her. “Oh. Oh, gosh!” She lifted her head to look at him.

He grimaced. “I think I broke my back.”

She tried to smother her smile. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he grunted. “I’ll admit that you being naked on top of me helps.” He patted her ass, and she couldn’t help but laugh, burying her face in his neck. “I’m touched at your concern. Seriously, I’m moved. Emotionally. I can’t move physically, because you broke my back.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you.” She kissed him.

“I thought my breath was gross,” he murmured. 

“I’ll take one for the team.” She smiled. “Come on. I know what’ll make you feel better.”

“Is it a new back?” 

“Nope.” She sat up. “It’s a shower. But if you ask nicely, I might scrub your back.” 

\--- 

The rest of the semester was her favorite in college yet. She was busy with school, but it was a good, satisfying kind of busy. She looked into the undergrad education program, and realized that it was feasible to graduate with a degree in art _and_ a degree in teaching, deciding to go for it. 

She liked her classes, especially her classes on sculpture, and on art in the media. 

Bellamy was her boyfriend, and she loved it. 

She loved to say it, to bring it up in conversation, and refer to _my boyfriend_. She grinned at the computer when she announced on Facebook that they were in a relationship, Bellamy confirmed it, and her friends hyperventilated on the post. She loved to post bad, embarrassing photos of Bellamy on Instagram, captioning them _look at this cutie!_ She was allowed to. She was his girlfriend. 

She wanted to scream it to the world. 

There was the sex, too. 

She liked to be in charge in bed, and she wasn’t surprised to learn that Bellamy liked to be in charge in bed, too. There were times when he was happy for Clarke to take the reigns, but there were times when it was a competition, and times when she learned, well. 

She liked it when Bellamy praised her in bed. She liked it _a lot_.

“That’s a kink, you know,” Raven said.

“I believe you,” Clarke said. 

There was something about the gravel in his voice when he told her that she felt so good, that she fucked him so good, when he whispered that he loved _those sweet little noises you make for me, babe_ , when she did what he told her to do, touching herself, or sucking him off, and he murmured _good girl_ in her ear. 

It wasn’t long before he realized that she got off on it. 

He started to do it purposefully, grinning into the skin of her neck. 

She liked to be in charge, but. 

She liked to be complimented, too. She liked that she was the girl in Bellamy’s bed, that she was the girl he wanted to touch, wanted to taste, wanted to get off, that he liked the way she looked, and he liked the way she moaned, and she was the girl who got him off. 

She liked that she got all of him now, and she was the only one who did. 

They were face to face, lying on their stomachs. 

“What’s a secret you’ve never told anyone ever?” she asked, connecting the freckles on his shoulders with the tip of her finger.

He chuckled. “I don’t know.” 

“Think.” She poked impatiently at his shoulder. 

“Well, I used to hate my freckles.” 

“What?” 

“I did. I thought they made me look funny, and I tried to scrub them off.” 

She laughed a little. “How old were you?”

“I don’t know. Six.” 

“Oh, you were a _baby_. Aw, Bellamy. That’s terrible.” She leaned in to kiss a freckle on his cheek. “I love your freckles.” She kissed another, and another, and another. 

“If you’re going to kiss every single one, we’re going to be here for a while.” 

She kissed the tip of his nose in reply, and his hands went for her stomach, tickling her. 

He was more open with her now that they were together, more vulnerable. 

In some ways, being his girlfriend was lot like being his friend. But it was different, too, and it wasn’t only the status on Facebook, and the sex.

She learned that Bellamy liked little, affectation touches. He liked to come up behind her, pressing his chest to her back. He liked to put his head in her lap, nudging her arm until she stroked his hair. He liked to put his hand on her hip when he passed her in the kitchen to grab a glass from the cabinet. 

He tended to chase her around the bed in his sleep, and that was her favorite. 

Clarke was creating a portfolio that spring, and she couldn’t help but work on her pieces whenever inspiration was willing to strike, which was why she tiptoed from the bed at three in the morning on a Wednesday to pull out her paints, and work on her moonscape. 

Bellamy wandered from the bedroom a little while after. “There you are.” 

She was focused on the painting, but he brushed a hand against her back when he passed her on his way to the kitchen for a snack, and there was chocolate on his breath when came up behind her on his return. She paused for a moment, and leaned into him, turning to press her cheek to his bare, warm stomach. 

“I’ll come to bed in a minute,” she said. “I promise.” 

“Nah.” He yawned. “Make your art, babe.”

She glanced up at him in amusement, and he dropped a kiss to her temple, shuffling off. 

It was starting to grow light out when she crawled into bed at last. There was paint on the t-shirt that she stole from Bellamy to wear for pajamas; she stripped it off before she climbed in, puffing up her pillow. Bellamy was snoring lightly next to her. She loved that he snored. It was only white noise, but she got to mock him for it. 

She hadn’t drifted off yet when Bellamy was at her back. 

He wrapped an arm around her waist, and she smiled at his warmth, cuddling into him.

\--- 

She got a job for the summer at an intercity summer program. She was going to be the counselor that led the kids in a project to repaint the city, to replace the graffiti that covered several different spaces across the city with murals, and she was excited to start.

Her parents were happy for her, too. 

She went to stay with them for a week in May after she finished her exams.

She wanted to see her father, but she didn’t really know what to expect from her mother; they hadn’t really talked properly since her mother visited her at the beginning of the semester, and Clarke was ready for a long, tense week. Her mother surprised her, though.

She cornered Clarke in the kitchen. “Tell me about this job you’ve got for the summer.” 

“It’s got nothing to do with medicine,” Clarke said. 

“I know. Your dad told me a little. I think it sounds fun.” 

Clarke stared. “You do?” 

Her mother sighed, and smiled softly at her. “Yes. I _do_. I know it might not always seem like it, but I want you to be happy. That’s why I pushed Harvard on you, and medical school. Those things made _me_ happy, and I thought they might make you happy, too. That’s _all_ I want, Clarke. I want you to be happy, and if this, if art, and teaching is what’s going to make you happy, okay. Then it’s what I want for you.” 

“Okay.” Clarke nodded. “Um, it’s actually—the job’s actually really cool.” 

“The program is partnered with the city, right?” 

They talked for close to an hour, making omelets together. She’d missed her mother. 

\--- 

It was at the end of the summer that Clarke got a bug. Or she thought she got a bug. 

Classes were about to start, and it was the worst timing ever. 

For a week, she was exhausted by every little task, and she woke up in the middle of the night with a sick, unsettled feeling in her stomach that made her rush to the toilet. Bellamy followed sleepily, kneeling to rub her back. “Something you ate?” he asked. 

“I think it’s a cold,” she muttered.

She thought that she got better after that. She didn’t. 

Three days later, she felt as crappy as before, and she complained to Bellamy about her back. He fetched her Tylenol from the bathroom, warning her that they needed to buy more, “and it looks like you’re about to run out of tampons, too. I’ll stop by CVS later.” 

She stared at him. 

“Or not,” he said. “You’re on your period, right?” He glanced at the calendar. 

“I’m—I’m not,” she said. 

“Oh. I thought—” 

“Oh, my god,” she whispered. 

He frowned. “What?” 

“I think I might be pregnant.” 

He stared at her. 

She pushed a hand through her hair, trying not to panic. “I’ve felt pretty crappy lately, right? Not sick, but worn out, and sore, and I’m—and I’m _late_. You’re right, I’m supposed to be on my period right now, but I’m not. I didn’t notice. Oh, _God_ , Bellamy.”

“It could be a bug,” he said. “Stress.” 

“The pill isn’t a hundred percent, and we haven’t used condoms in _months_.” 

Why hadn’t this occurred to her earlier? Why hadn’t she _thought_ about her symptoms, and realized what they might mean? But this couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be. 

“Okay, um. I’ll go to CVS, and get a test.” 

She nodded. “Can you?”

“I’ll go now. Just don’t freak out, okay?” He shrugged into his jacket, grabbing his keys. “It’s three blocks. I’ll be back in less than twenty minutes.” He paused at the door, and crossed the room to where she sat on the sofa; he squatted, reaching for her hands. “Hey.” She looked at him. “You might not be.” 

“I might not be.” 

He squeezed her hands, and she nodded. There wasn’t a reason to freak out yet. 

“Go,” she said. “I’m fine.” 

He rose up, swiping a kiss to her cheek, and left. 

She stared at the door after it was shut. She should’ve gone with him; it was going to drive her crazy to sit on the sofa in the silence, _waiting_. She reached her hands up, clutching her breasts. They felt normal. Not bigger, not tender. But when did that part kick in? 

Her laptop was in the bedroom, but Bellamy’s was a foot away from her. 

She started to look up symptoms on Google.

The words blurred on the screen when she stared at them.

 _What was she going to do with a baby_? 

She knew that Bellamy wanted kids, and she did, too. But she was twenty-two. She was in college. She lived in a _dorm_. Okay, yes, Bellamy lived in an apartment, and he was twenty-eight, had a job, was responsible. _Ready_. Was he? Did it matter when she _wasn’t_?

Would they get married? 

 _Oh, God._  

She pushed to her feet, and went to the kitchen, found a Sprite in the fridge, and started to chug it. It was something to do, and she needed to be able to pee, right? 

Bellamy’s face was pinched when he returned, and she knew that he’d been going over everything in his head, too, and it’d made him tense, anxious. But he’d gotten three pregnancy tests, and chocolate, too, and she managed a smile for him when she saw that. 

He sat on the edge of the tub while she peed on the stick, and she joined him after. 

They set the timer on his watch. It was quiet.

“If you are,” he said. She glanced at him. “What do you want to do?” 

She glanced away. “Honestly—” She shrugged, helpless. “I don’t know, but I think I—I think I would want _not_ to be pregnant.” She swallowed thickly, and looked at him, saw his gaze was on the floor. “I can’t even make myself _say_ it, but.” She dropped her gaze to the floor, too. “But, yeah. I think if I am, then that’s what I’d . . .”

He nodded. 

“Does that make me terrible?” she asked. “I love you, and I know I can count on you, and I know that we’re in a position to make it work. That we _could_ do it, _could_ make it work.” She sniffed. “But I am _not_ ready to be somebody’s mom. I know that’s selfish—”

“It’s not,” he said. He looked at her, rubbing her leg, and squeezing her knee. 

She leaned into him. “I don’t know if I could do it, you know. If I could really. I never thought I’d have to think about it, or—” She shook her head, and her eyes burned with tears. “I don’t know! I just—I don’t—” She started to cry, burying her face in her hands. 

“Hey,” he murmured. “Hey, hey. It’s okay.” He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his chest. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.” He kissed the top of her head. “But it doesn’t make you a bad person, okay? I promise. You’re the best person I know, Clarke.” 

His watch started to beep, and she pulled away, wiping at her eyes. 

“You wouldn’t hate me?”

“Never,” he said.

She smiled, and glanced at where the stick sat on the edge of the sink. “You look at it.”

He got up, and she drew in a breath when he picked it up, looked at it. 

“What’s it say?” 

He looked at her. “It says you’ve got a bug, and you’re late ‘cause you’re stressed.” He smiled softly, and she stumbled to her feet, reaching for the test to see for herself. 

“I’m not pregnant,” she said, stunned.

“Nope.”

She pushed the hair away from her face. “Should I take another to be sure?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s a good idea.” 

She took another, and the result was the same. Negative. She wasn’t pregnant. 

He hugged her, and she squeezed her eyes shut, clinging to him. “Do you want to order pizza?” he asked. “We can get a cookie pizza, too. Celebrate.” She huffed out a laugh, pulling away from only to lean up, kiss him quickly, and wrap her arms around his neck.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I love you so, so much.” 

“I know,” he said, rubbing her back. 

She dropped onto her heels. “Can we have breakfast for dinner?” 

His eyes crinkled with his smile. “Sure.”

She changed into pajamas while he started, and tossed the tests into the trash. 

The waffles were on the iron by the time she came into the kitchen. 

She watched him for a minute, peeling a waffle off the iron with his fingers, and swearing at the heat before he dropped it on a plate. He stuck his fingers in his mouth, and she smiled. _I’m going to have a baby one day_ , she thought, _and you’re going to be the father._  

It was strange the way that their night seemed to carry on, unaffected.

They had panicked so suddenly, so completely, but their reason to panic was gone.

Her back continued to ache, and her stomach was unsettled, but she wasn’t pregnant, and the relief at that fact made her happy in a shiny, breathless way. She leaned against Bellamy’s chest on the sofa, pulling her waffle into pieces, and eating it with her fingers. 

They were watching _Rome_. He’d seen it before, but he was making Clarke watch it. 

“I don’t think I could survive in Ancient Rome,” she said. 

“I’m pretty sure you’d rule Ancient Rome,” he replied. “Hey, um.” 

There was a question in his voice, and she glanced at him. 

“You love me.”

She blinked. “Um, yeah.” 

“You know you’ve never told me before, right? Before today.” 

Her eyes widened a little. She hadn’t, had she? Until she’d spilled it out to him today. Repeatedly. She bit her lip. “I guess it always seemed obvious to me. I love you.” 

He nodded. “Just thought I’d check.”

“I meant it,” she said. 

The edge of a smile tugged on his lips, and he looked at the TV. She returned her gaze to the TV, too, staring unseeingly at the screen for a moment. Her cheeks were warm. The guy from Grey’s Anatomy was yelling now. What was going on? They needed to rewind. 

“Hey, Clarke.” 

“Hmm.” 

“I love you, too.”

She pressed her lips together, suppressing her smile. “Obviously.” 

His chest shook a little with laughter, and he leaned in, nosing at her. She grinned, tilting her head, and she felt his teeth flash against her neck in a grin; he shifted, and started to drop kisses along her skin. She closed her eyes, and he sucked softly at her skin, leaving a mark before— 

The door swung open. “Is everybody clothed?” Jasper asked. 

Bellamy growled against Clarke’s neck, and she opened her eyes to see Jasper with a hand clapped over his eyes, standing in the threshold of the door to the apartment. Bellamy drew away from her with a sigh, and “everybody’s clothed,” she told Jasper. 

He lowered his hand hesitantly, and nodded. “It never hurts to check,” he said, marching into the room with Monty at his heels, and Maya, too, rolling her eyes at her boyfriend.

“You caught us _once_ ,” Clarke said. 

“If he’d given me another five minutes, he’d have caught us twice,” Bellamy muttered. Clarke patted his leg in sympathy, and Jasper called from the kitchen that _he heard that_! 

\---

For a while after their brief pregnancy scare, Bellamy was cautious about sex.

It made sense, but.

He became really, really into oral, which, okay, wasn’t new, and she wasn’t against, but she liked to have him inside her, too, and he seemed to decide on his own that it was risky. It was fairly easy to get him off that kick, but his next was to use condoms again. 

“I don’t want to,” she said, crossing her arms. “We’re clean, and I’m on the pill.”

He was a stubborn little bastard, though.

She humored him, knowing his crazy wasn’t baseless, and wanting him to enjoy it.

Things returned to normal eventually. He was stubborn, but he wasn’t able to resist when Clarke stripped off the dress she was going to buy, pulled her underwear down, and straddled his lap in the little dressing room, fucking him with his pants around his ankles, and not a condom in sight. 

It turned out that was a kink she had, too. She liked when they did it in public. 

She tried to be quiet, biting Bellamy’s shoulder when she came. But when they emerged, the pale, gangly teenager who was folding sweaters in the back was blushing a bright, burning red. He tripped when Clarke looked at him, and stuttered, glancing away quickly. 

She bit her lip, dropping her gaze to the ground. 

They passed the boy, and Bellamy threw an arm possessively around Clarke’s shoulders. 

\--- 

In April, she began to stress about the big, ritzy end-of-the-year showcase for seniors. 

She wanted her pieces to be _perfect_. 

The week before the showcase, she was a tense, frazzled mess. But she turned her pieces in, and she was done. The showcase was tomorrow, and she was _done_. She went to Bellamy’s as soon as she left her professor’s, knowing that an evening on the sofa with a beer, Bellamy, and terrible, mindless TV was exactly what she needed. 

She walked in the door, and heaved a sigh. “I need a beer, _stat_ ,” she announced.

“Great,” Murphy said. “Mom’s home.” 

She frowned. 

Bellamy sat in his recliner with a beer in his hand, and a cigarette between his fingers.

She stared at him, at the smoke that curled up lazily from the cigarette before he brought it to his mouth for a drag, keeping his gaze on the TV, and ignoring Clarke completely. 

“What’s going on?” she asked. 

“I thought you needed a beer,” Murphy said. 

She glared at him, yanking off her sneakers. “Bellamy. What’s going on? Why are you smoking? Did something happen?” She knew he was tempted to smoke when he was stressed; she knew because that was when he started to buy candy in bulk, and inhale it. 

He didn’t _actually_ smoke. He quit. 

For a moment, she thought something terrible must’ve happened. 

“I wanted a smoke,” he said. 

“What? _Why_?”

“‘Cause I fucking _wanted_ a smoke,” he snapped. “Mind your own _fucking_ business.” 

She reared her head back. “Excuse me?” 

His gaze stayed at the TV. 

“Okay, I think we need to start over,” she said. “What’s going on? _Bellamy_.” She crossed the room to stand in front of the television, and his nostrils flared, but he looked away, continuing to avoid her gaze. She huffed. “What is the _matter_ with you?” she demanded. 

“I think the guy’s just trying to have a smoke,” Murphy said. 

She grit her teeth. “I think it’s time for you to go, John.” 

“I’m good,” he replied. 

“Get out.” 

“Last I checked, this wasn’t your apartment.” 

She looked at Bellamy. 

“Fine,” she said. “Okay. Well, I think it’s a little stuffy in here.” She yanked her sweater up over her head, tossing it, and standing in her lacy, white camisole. Bellamy’s gaze snapped to her at last, and she raised her eyebrows at him in challenge. But he was silent, and she tugged off her camisole, which left her in only a bra. 

“Holy shit,” Murphy said. 

“Get out,” Bellamy said. 

Clarke started to undo the button on her jeans. 

“Out!” Bellamy was on his feet. Murphy stumbled up, dragging his gaze off Clarke when Bellamy started for him, looking ready to kill. Clarke pushed her jeans down, and Murphy tripped. “ _Out_!” Bellamy barked, and Murphy was gone, slamming the door shut. 

The apartment was silent. 

Bellamy glared at her. “Jesus, Clarke.” 

She crossed her arms. “Spill,” she said. “What the fuck is your problem?” 

“Nothing,” he said. He pushed a hand through his hair. 

She scoffed. “No way. I want to know why you’re treating me like this. I’ve seen you treat people like this before. Not a lot, but I’ve seen it, and I’ve always hated it. But you’ve never done it to me. _Never_ , and you’re not allowed to start. Don’t you dare, Bell.” 

He glanced away from her for a moment, clenching his jaw. 

“What is this about?”

“This is it, Clarke,” he said. He looked at her. “This is who I am.” 

“This is _not_ who you are.” 

“It is. I smoke, and I drink, and I work at some auto shop. It’s what I am, and it’s what I’m always going to be. If that’s not enough for you, tell me now.”

She gaped at him. “What are you _talking_ about? Have I _ever_ —?” 

“You don’t have to say it.” 

“I do,” she said. “I _do_ have to say it, and I haven’t. Do you know why I haven’t? Because it’s not what I think.” She stared at him. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Bellamy. I—” 

“You don’t like the fact that I smoke,” he said.

“ _You_ don’t like the fact that you smoke!” she exclaimed. “And you don’t! You quit!” 

It was silent.

“What brought this on?” she asked. “Why are you talking like this, and acting like—like there’s some big, unspoken problem between us? Where is this coming from?” 

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he said. 

“No, you haven’t,” she said. “Bullshit. Tell me the truth.” 

“Tell you the truth?” 

“Tell me the truth.” 

“Who the fuck is Wells?” 

She blinked. “Wells?” 

“Yeah, _Wells_. Do you know a guy named Wells?” 

“I—he was my friend when I was little. Wells Jaha. His mom was roommates with my mom in college.  I think the last time I saw him, we were, like, nine, and it was his mother’s funeral. Our families fell out of touch after that—” She shook her head. “What does _Wells_ have to do with anything?” 

“Did you know that your mother always thought you were going to marry him?” 

“ _What_?” 

“Yeah, but don’t worry. She’s accepted that I’m the one you’ve chosen.” 

She stared at him. “This is about my _mother_?” she said. “When did you talk to—?”

“She came into town for some medical conference.” 

“Right. I know. I met her for dinner.” 

“She stopped by the apartment before she went home today, and wanted to go to lunch.” 

“What did she say to you?” 

“She told me that she knew how much you cared about me. That, _to be honest with you, Bellamy_ , I’m not the person she saw you with. But she recognizes that I’m person you want to be with, and she isn’t going to stand in the way of that, and she wants to _help_ me. She knows I’m a good person, and I just haven’t had the right opportunities.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

“Do I want to go to college? If it’s the money that’s stopping me, she can help.” 

“Oh, my God.” 

“There was more, but I think you’ve got the gist of it.” 

“I’m sorry,” Clarke said. “I’m sorry that she talked to you like that. I can’t believe it. It’s totally inappropriate, and it’s _wrong_.” How could her mother have done that? She’d known Bellamy since he was a kid. She’d trusted him to babysit Clarke, had stood next to him at his mother’s funeral, and suddenly she was going to treat him like that? 

Bellamy was silent.

“But you have to know that I am not my mother,” she went on. 

“You don’t think I should go to college?” 

“Do you _want_ to go to college?” 

“I’m not good enough for you unless I do.”

“ _Stop it_. Stop saying that. I know you don’t believe it, and you know _I_ don’t believe it.” 

He shook his head. “Do I? You go to _Harvard_ , Clarke.”

“I’m aware. Bellamy—” 

“Just—I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” He turned away from her. “Dave’s been on my ass, and I got kicked in the balls by your mom, and I’m just done. I’m done.” He sank onto the sofa, taking a swig from the beer he’d abandoned to chase Murphy out, and starting to light up another fucking cigarette. 

“No,” she said. She grabbed the remote, clicking off the TV. “We’re not done.” 

“Yes, we are,” he said. 

She swallowed. “Now is that with this conversation, or with this relationship?” 

His hand tightened on his beer. 

She nodded. “Okay.” She grabbed her jeans, pulling them on. Her hands shook a little, but she zipped them, buttoned them, and pulled her sweater on, too. She shoved her camisole into her bag, got her shoes on, and looked back at Bellamy, sitting on the sofa. 

He took a drag.

In a fury, she marched to him, and tore the cigarette from his mouth. He jerked away in surprise, but he refused to meet her gaze. “You’re a dick,” she said, leaning over him. “But if you want to break up with me, you’re going to have to _say_ it. You don’t get to be _that_ cruel to me, Bellamy Blake.” 

She turned on her heel, stalking from the apartment. 

He didn’t try to stop her.

In the hallway, she paused. She wanted to call her mother, and scream at her. She wanted to go to Octavia, and relay every word to her. Through the cheap, thin walls of the building, she heard the television go on in the apartment. She wanted to burst into tears. 

\--- 

She needed to clear her head. She changed at her dorm, and went for a long, angry run. 

It didn’t really help. 

She crawled into her bed without a shower, pulling the sheets up over her head. “You okay?” Maya asked, and Clarke mumbled an affirmative. It wasn’t an hour before Octavia climbed onto the bed, yanking the sheets down, and lying beside Clarke so close that her breath fanned hotly against Clarke’s face. 

“Maya texted,” she explained. 

Maya looked at her sheepishly. “It seemed like you needed her.” 

Clarke nodded, managing a smile. “Yeah.” 

Maya nodded, and rose to her feet, grabbing her phone off her desk. “I’ll just . . . go make sure the boys haven’t blown anything up.” She left the room, closing the door quietly. 

“What is it?” Octavia asked. She nudged Clarke’s leg with her foot. “What’s going on?” Her eyes were wide, concerned, and she reached out to tug softly on Clarke’s earlobe. 

Tears burned Clarke’s eyes, and she felt her face start to crumple. 

“Clarke, what _happened_?” Octavia said. 

She told her. 

How Bellamy was an ass, and the way her mother cornered him with her well-meaning, absolutely _awful_ lunch. How when Clarke tried to talk to Bellamy, he shut down completely, and he’d never done this to her before, and it didn’t make sense, and she was confused, and angry, and—

“He’s an _idiot_ ,” Octavia swore. 

“He hasn’t been feeling this way all along, right?” Clarke asked. “I mean, he’s never once made it seem like he cared about the fact that he hadn’t gone to college, or seemed insecure, or like he resented me—I’m not crazy to be totally blindsided by this, right?” 

“ _No_. You’re not. But, okay.” Octavia sighed. “One time he kind of . . .” 

“What?” 

“It was when you were with Lexa. He was like _she’s good for Clarke. Goes to Harvard, and everything_. I told him that he was a moron, ‘cause Lexa was the worst, and everybody knew it. I think he was just feeling sad that you were with her, and not with him. But I guess maybe your mom brought up that old insecurity?” 

“I guess.” Clarke sniffed. 

“But he definitely doesn’t resent you, and you know that my brother’s got enough of an ego that he’s not insecure about himself. Mostly. I bet it’s just that your mom must’ve made him afraid of losing you, and he turned into an jackass ‘cause he’s a big dumbass.” 

“I’m not my mother,” Clarke said. 

Octavia wiped the tears off Clarke’s cheek. “You know he loves you, right?” she asked. 

“I know.” Clarke sighed. “But . . . but if that’s not enough for him—” 

“ _Clarke_. He’ll pull his head out of his ass.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. Couples fight. It’s just not really my style. I don’t fight. I . . .” 

“What?” 

“It’s just always been easier for me to cut myself off, you know? Just have a nice, clean break, be done with it. Like with Nat in high school, and with Finn, and Lexa. I’ve always just kind of found it easier just to walk away. But it’s never been _Bellamy_ before.” 

Octavia nodded. “You love him, too, right?"

“Of course.” 

“Then don’t run yet. Give him a chance to fix this.” 

“I will. It’s not like I want to break up. That’s the last thing I want.” 

“Promise?” Octavia held out her pinky to Clarke. 

Clarke smiled, hooking Octavia’s pinky with her own. “Promise.” 

They watched movies on Maya’s laptop that night, melting a Hershey’s from the dorm vending machine over the popcorn that Maya made. It made Clarke feel a little better. But the fact that she didn’t get a single text or call or _anything_ from Bellamy _didn’t_ help. 

She decided not to call her mother. 

Her mother refused to listen to what she didn’t want to hear, and she’d talk over Clarke if Clarke tried to tell her why what she’d done was horrible. But if she stopped talking to her mom? Ignored her calls? Now _that_ was a punishment that’d take a toll on her mother. 

She wasn’t going to be able to forgive her mother easily for this. 

It was one thing to pick at Clarke’s choices. 

It was another thing entirely to go after Bellamy. 

Her mother grew up in the same hick, little town that Bellamy grew up in. She’d been the first in her family to go to college, and she’d married into money when she married Clarke’s father. But she’d raised Clarke in that town, and had never had a problem with Bellamy before. Yes, he hadn’t gone to college. 

He’d been busy, you know, _raising his sister_. 

Even if he hadn’t been, a person didn’t have to go to college to be _worth_ something. 

In the morning, she checked her phone as soon as her alarm went off. There was nothing. 

\--- 

The showcase was in the city that evening. Students were expected to arrive early, and everyone was eager, excited. This was the big, fancy culmination of their studies. 

Clarke wanted to be excited. She _was_ excited. 

Her friends were going to come to see her stuff, to cheer her on. Plus, there was cheese at the showcase. She filled up a napkin, returning to the corner where her pieces were displayed, and resisted the urge to check her phone for texts from Octavia, or from, well. 

Guests started to drift in at seven, and her gaze caught on Maya with Jasper. 

Maya saw her, and glanced to the side before she smiled at Clarke. 

Clarke raised a hand to wave, only to see what it was that made Maya smile. 

He was in his suit, and he’d brought flowers, and sharp, sweet happiness seemed to knock the breath from Clarke. He spotted her, and started for her. She wanted to cry.

“I cut off the roots,” he said. 

She let out a slow, shaky breath. “I was starting to worry,” she told him. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. 

She smiled. “Me, too. I’m sorry about my mother. But you know she’s crazy, right? I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember, Bell. Since I was a _kid_. You’ve _always_ been enough for me. More than.” She stared at him, needed him to see how much she meant it. 

“I know. I was being an ass.” 

“But it’s okay now?” she asked. “You’re okay now?” 

He nodded. “You’re it for me, Clarke.” 

“Bell.” 

“I mean it. You’re it for me, and, truth is, until last week, I’d just been assuming that I was it for you, too, that we were—” He swallowed thickly. “Then I talked to your mother, and it made me think that maybe I’d gotten it all wrong, and I was a pit stop—” 

She shook her head, surging into him. “No, no. You got it right.”

“I love you,” he said. 

She clutched his face, kissed him, and his arms went around her, hugging her. “I love you, too,” she whispered. “Don’t you do that to me again. Never, ever again.” 

“Trust me,” he said, turning his face to kiss her cheek. “My sister’s already made it pretty clear that unspeakable things are going to happen to my balls the moment I try.” She laughed a little, and squeezed him. “Seriously, babe,” he murmured. “Never, ever again.” 

She drew away to kiss him, and to look at him. 

“Here.” He gave the flowers to her. They were crumpled a little from their embrace, and it looked like they _were_ taken from a yard: fuzzy yellow dandelions, purple, red, and orange pansies, and wild violets. “I couldn’t find the little grape flowers on short notice.” 

“I’ll let it slide this time,” she said. 

He smiled before he pressed a kiss to her temple, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, and turning his gaze to the wall. “Okay. Tell me what I’m looking at, Frida.”

\--- 

He crowded her from behind when she opened the door to the apartment, and she smiled, turning in his arms; his kiss was sweeping, possessive, taking her breath, and they stumbled into the dark of the apartment. She was breathless when he spun her, pressing her into the wall, and grazing his lips along the side of her neck. 

He bit the slope of her shoulder, skating his hands up her legs, and rucking up her dress.

She breathed in sharply when his hand went around her hip, sliding into her underwear, and he brushed a finger against her folds. But he was a tease, and his hand rose up to settle on her stomach while he pulled off her underwear. She reached around him, trying to get a hand on his belt. 

But he turned her suddenly, and dropped to his knees.

His head disappeared under her dress. 

She closed her eyes, tipping her head back, and pressing her hands against the wall when he spread her thighs, and put his mouth on her. He took his time, squeezing her thighs when she whimpered, and tried to clench her thighs, tried to hurry him on, knowing that he could do it, that he could make her come so quickly if he’d fucking _try_. 

“Bellamy,” she murmured. “I swear to God.” 

She felt his mouth turn up in a grin against her, and she curled her toes, cursing him until he did that thing with his tongue; she arched her back, cried out, and slumped into the wall, panting. He pulled out from under her dress, and she opened her eyes in time to see him wipe his mouth on his sleeve. 

She sank to her knees, and took his face in her hands, kissing him. 

He started to pull her into his chest. 

But she dropped her hands to his shoulders, and shoved. He shifted, going to his elbows, and laying on his back, and she pulled up the skirt of her dress when she crawled onto him, straddling his thighs. She pulled his tie off, and started to unbutton his shirt, pushing up the t-shirt beneath, and lowered her head to press a kiss to his stomach. 

He ran his hands up her thighs, gripping her ass. 

She pulled on his belt, and he lifted his hips for her to tug off his trousers, his boxers. She kissed him on the mouth, and rose up; he tugged on the straps of her dress, and she reached around her back, unzipping the dress to allow him to tug it down. It pooled at her waist, and she flattened her hands on his chest, shifting up.

His hands went to her hips to steady her when she sank onto him. 

He swore, staring up at her, and she began to move. 

In the street, a car drove by, and the apartment was flooded with light for a moment.

“Clarke,” he breathed. 

“I love you,” she told him. “I love how it feels to have you inside me." She held his gaze through the dark. "You always know how to kiss me, and touch me, and make me come. It’s like you know everything about me, like you were made for me, and you were. You _were_. You’re mine.” 

He surged up, kissing her, and she shifted, wrapped her arms around his neck. 

She pressed her forehead against his, closing her eyes. 

They came together; she clenched around him purposefully when she was close, and he gave a low, deep grunt, digging his fingers into her thighs, and thrusting up into her. Their breathing grew harsher together, and his hands were on her hips now, holding her so tightly that it was going to leave marks, moving her against him until she cried out, and came while he came, too. 

The headlights from another car flashed over the window. 

“I love you, too,” he murmured. 

She nodded. Her heartbeat was steady now, but she wasn’t ready to let him go yet. 

“Don’t worry,” he added, and she felt the curve of his smile against her cheek. “I know I belong to you. Kind of always have. Since you were eleven, and bossing me around.” 

She smiled. “Make me an ice cream cookie sandwich?” she asked 

He laughed, pressing a kiss to her cheek, and hugging her, and she hugged him back, hugged him tightly, closing her eyes, and clinging to him, thinking it shouldn’t be possible to love a person this much, to love him until you thought you were going to burst with it, and every little part of him was everything. But she did. Oh, she loved him. 

\--- 

Things were awkward with her parents for a while. Her mother apologized to Bellamy, but it didn’t make things less awkward. It got a little better at Clarke’s graduation; everyone was happy, and everyone knew it, and it was enough to make things okay again. 

For her graduation, her parents bought her a week at a giant beach house in Cape Cod. 

She invited the gang, and they left before the sun was up on a Saturday. 

They swam in the ocean for hours that very first day, staying on the beach when the sun began to sink, grilling hamburgers, drinking wine, and making s’mores. Bellamy gave Clarke a piggyback ride to the house after. He tasted like chocolate when she kissed him, and his skin was warm from the sun.

Harper woke Clarke in the morning, and the girls spent the morning on the deck, sipping homemade strawberry margaritas, and sunbathing until it grew breezy out, and cooler. 

It started to storm in the afternoon, and continued to storm for the rest of the week. 

But they made the best of it. 

They stocked up on drinks, and played charades, poker, and games on the Wii. There was a long, combative game of Risk that ended with tears, violence, and Lincoln grabbing Octavia, hoisting her over his shoulder, and carrying her from the room while she screamed at Murphy. There was Jasper’s weed, and Octavia’s ancient karaoke machine. 

Clarke was tipsy on sangria when she stumbled up, taking the microphone.

She picked a song, and spun to face the group. 

“ _I've got sunshine on a cloudy day,”_ she sang. “ _When it's cold outside I've got the month of May_. / _I guess you'd say, / What can make me feel this way?_ _My girl."_ She pointed at Octavia. “ _Talkin’ bout my girl, my girl_.” She did a little spin, singing dramatically into the microphone. “ _I've got so much honey the bees envy me. / I've got a sweeter song than the birds in the trees_.” 

Octavia surged up, joining her.  
  
“ _Well, I guess you'd say, / What can make me feel this way?_ ” Octavia threw an arm over Clarke’s shoulder. “ _My girl, my girl, my girl._ _Talkin' 'bout my girl, my girl._ ” 

“I think your girlfriends are in love,” Murphy said. 

“Is this news to you?” Raven asked. 

They finished the song, and Clarke held Octavia to her side, hugging her, and pressing their cheeks together. “It’s okay,” Octavia said. “Lincoln knows that Clarke’s my soulmate.” She turned to slobber a kiss on Clarke’s cheek. 

Bellamy was up next; Clarke slapped his butt when he passed her. 

“Somebody's totally, one hundred percent sober right now,” Miller said, grinning. 

Clarke shot little finger guns at him before she collapsed onto the sofa, grabbing Harper’s arm to bring her closer. Bellamy cleared his throat, and flipped his hair dramatically. 

He sang _I Will Survive_. 

“That’s my boyfriend,” Clarke told Harper.

“Is it really?” Harper said, patting Clarke’s hand. 

The rest of the night was fuzzy for Clarke. She woke to find that she’d gone to sleep with her feet on the pillows, and her sweatshirt balled up under her head to make up for it. Bellamy was next to her, lying on his stomach, and snoring up a storm. She felt a little like death, but she rolled onto her back, and smiled at the ceiling. 

They returned to Boston on Saturday, and Clarke moved into Bellamy’s that afternoon. 

\--- 

She was beginning to think she wasn’t going to have a job in the fall, and was going to be doomed to wear her pajamas day in, day out, weeping into her Wheaties, when a school in the heart of Boston called her for an interview, and offered her a job on the spot at the interview. 

For the rest of the summer, she worked in a frenzy to plan her curriculum. 

In September, she became a real, official art teacher. 

In November, they moved into a new, nicer apartment. 

It was weird to leave the place that was like home for over four years. But the apartment they moved into was bigger, had a balcony where Bellamy wanted to put a grill, and an alcove for Clarke to set up her paints. They recruited their friends to help, and moved in a day, toasting their accomplishment with warm, cheap beer. 

Bob Ross fell in love soon after. 

He liked to sit on the windowsill in the kitchen, staring across the three measly feet to the next building over, and the window of an apartment where a giant orange tabby lived. Once in a while, he pawed at the window, and meowed, and the tabby returned the favor. 

Clarke sent a snapchat to Octavia. 

“Tell your auntie what you’re doing, Bob Ross,” Clarke said. 

Bob Ross looked at her, and meowed. 

“How long have you been madly in love with our neighbor cat?” 

He stared at Clarke for a moment before he returned his gaze to the window, and yowled. She laughed, and the snapchat cut off. She captioned it _romeow and julicat_. Octavia wanted to get Bob Ross a friend after that, but Bellamy threatened to throw any cat that she brought to his apartment out the window. 

“You’re terrible,” Octavia said. 

Clarke painted Bob Ross at the window, and the tabby in the distance. Bellamy framed it. 

He decided to buy himself a new TV for Christmas that year, and Clarke went to the store with him. Miller came, too, claiming he was an expert at televisions, and he dragged Monty. Naturally, the boys decided they needed the most obscenely large, loud TV ever. 

Clarke returned from the bathroom, and “we’ve picked it!” Bellamy announced. 

“That was fast. Which one?” 

He pointed, and the salesman came up to him with a clipboard, saying that he talked to his manager, and he was going to get Bellamy a really great deal on the television. 

“No,” Clarke said, shaking her head. “Honey, no. We’ll go blind.” 

In the end, the television that Bellamy picked _was_ huge. 

It was a compromise. It wasn’t the biggest, but it was bigger than Clarke’s pick. 

Three weeks later, Octavia convinced Clarke that Bob Ross needed a friend, and once Clarke was on her side, it was impossible for Bellamy to put up much of a fight. 

Octavia went to the shelter with her on a Saturday, wanting a cat for herself, too. 

Clarke meant to get a cat. Really. 

But on her way to the bathroom in the back, she passed the kennels where they kept the dogs, and there was a dog with her snout pressed up to the mesh of the kennel. She looked up at Clarke with big, sad eyes, and it was impossible for Clarke _not_ to kneel on the ground in front of the kennel. “Hi, puppy,” she murmured. 

The dog whined softly, and pushed her snout at Clarke’s hand through the mesh. 

She tried to resist, but. 

The lady at the shelter caught Clarke on her knees, talking to the dog, and she opened the door of the kennel for Clarke to meet the dog properly, telling Clarke about how her owners abandoned her, tying her leash to the bench in front of the shelter at night, leaving her for the shelter’s employees to find in the morning. 

She texted Bellamy. _There’s this dog_. 

He replied unhelpfully with _CAT._

 _She’s really sweet, and spayed, and I need her, Bell. I NEED HER._  

She began to send him picture after picture after the dog, promising that he was allowed to name her, and telling him what the lady at the shelter told her, and sending him a snapchat so that he was able to hear that soft, sweet whine until, at last, Bellamy gave in. 

 _Andromeda_ , he texted. 

She grinned. 

Andromeda turned out to be as headstrong as she was sweet, refusing to do what they told her to unless she wanted to. But she got on with Bob Ross, and Clarke found it hilarious that Andromeda liked to herd people from the room when she felt that they were getting too rowdy. It happened to Jasper a lot.

She was madly in love with Bellamy, too, which was adorable. 

He started to take her with him when he ran in the mornings.

Clarke joined them when the weather got warmer; it was good, easy exercise. 

“You guys are super middle class these days, taking your dog on jogs together,” Octavia said. She narrowed her eyes at them. “Tell me the truth. Do you have matching neon tracksuits? Do you do yoga? Oh, my God. Do you buy _kale_? Do you know what kale _is_?” 

The end of her first successful year of teaching crept up on her. 

She didn’t really think the last school day of the year was something to celebrate. 

But she walked into the apartment that Friday to find a cake, balloons, and Bellamy with a party horn in his mouth, and a party hat on his head. Andromeda wore a party hat, too, and Bob Ross was glaring at everyone from the sofa with his party hat around his middle. 

“Congratulations!” Bellamy grinned. 

She laughed. 

He put a party hat on her, and handed her a present. 

“I get a present, too?” She tore off the paper quickly, gaping when she saw the box, saw that he’d gotten her a set of brushes that she liked to look at longingly whenever they went into that local artist shop next to the Romanian place that he loved. “Oh, my gosh.” 

“Now that it’s summer, I figured you were going to be working on your own stuff.” 

She clutched the present to her chest. “You’re my favorite, you know?” 

He kissed her, starting to laugh when she ran off to use her brand new brushes _right now_.

\--- 

Things were good that summer, and into the fall. But when the weather grew colder, it seemed to shepherd in stress, and exhaustion. Bellamy started to take some business classes in January, which was great, but they kept him busy, and they left him agitated, worrying that he was going to fail, and he’ll have wasted his time, his money. 

In February, her parents decided to get a divorce. 

Clarke was floored at the announcement. 

It was amicable, but that didn’t mean it didn’t break her heart a little, or that it wasn’t awkward to pack up her dad’s things to help him move out. It was strange, and sad, and she hated it.

Bellamy was supportive, but. 

He became super, inexplicably _sour_ in March. It was awful. 

“It’s starting to feel like we’re ships that pass in the night,” Clarke said. She stabbed at a radish in her salad, and scrunched up her nose when she looked at Raven. “We haven’t had sex in weeks. Not even close. I haven’t even caught him looking at my boobs in who knows how long, and he _loves_ my boobs.” 

“Understandably,” Raven said. “You have great boobs.”

“I have _fantastic_ boobs.” 

“I’m a little gay for your boobs.” 

“Right? _Thank you_.” She sighed, and reached for her wine. “I tried to jump him the other night, and it just . . . didn’t work. I swear, I nearly went to the bathroom to cry after.” 

“Is he really that stressed about his classes?” Raven asked. 

Clarke shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess? I think it’s more than that, but he hasn’t said.” 

“Honestly, this sounds like one of those sit him down, make him talk things. I know the guy likes to be a major grouch, but he always tones it down with you. If something’s got his undies in a bunch, make him tell you what. Also.” She poured the rest of her wine into Clarke’s glass. “This will help, too.” 

Clarke tried to talk to Bellamy that night. 

He frowned when she suggested that something might be bothering him. “I’m fine.” 

“You’re not,” she insisted. “You’ve been really closed off, and stressed. Is it something with your classes? I don’t like seeing you like this. I don’t like thinking something’s wrong, and I can’t do anything to make it better. Am I really just totally crazy, or is . . .?” 

But she saw it on his face already. She was right. 

He sighed. “Few weeks ago, Miller and I . . .” 

“What?” 

“Earlier this year, Dave offered to sell us the shop.” 

“Oh. Wow.” 

“But we needed a loan to get the money, and we—” He shrugged. “We didn’t get it.” 

“ _Oh_. I didn’t—” 

“I didn’t want to tell you,” he said. “It was supposed to be a surprise when I came to you with our whole plan to buy the place. Impress you, and get your approval. Then I didn’t want to tell you ‘cause, well.” He cleared his throat, looking away from her. “So. Yeah.” 

She nodded. She wished he’d told her, but she understood. 

“I’m sorry I’ve been an ass.” 

“No, it’s fine.” She hesitated. “How much money is it that you need?” 

“Does it matter?” He smiled at her, self-deprecating. 

“Well, yeah. I have really good credit, so I could possibly co-sign a loan. Or, you know, my dad’s mom died when I was in middle school, and she left me kind of a lot of—” 

“No.” He shook his head. “No way.” 

She frowned. “It’s something to consider. I could—” 

“I’m not taking my girlfriend’s money for a business venture, Clarke,” he snapped. “Do I really seem like that big of a sleaze to you?” 

“What? No! That's not what I was saying. Don’t twist it like that. It’d be an investment, and—” 

“Bullshit. It’s my girlfriend giving me her money ‘cause the bank laughed me off. No.” 

She crossed her arms. “Then what are you going to do?” 

“I don’t know. I’ll figure it out.” He sniffed, looking away from her. 

“Let me help,” she said. 

“I get that you want to help, but I’m. Not. Taking. Your money.” 

“Don’t think of it like that. Think of it—think of it as _our_ money. I mean, we—”

He cut her off. “We’re done discussing this. We’re done.” 

He stalked off to the kitchen, and she closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I thought we talked about how you weren’t going to end conversations like that!” she yelled. He ignored her, and she headed for the bedroom. If he was going to be a brat, she was going to go for a run, and get away from him. 

They didn’t talk for the rest of the night. 

He seemed to go to sleep without a problem when they went to bed, but she couldn’t. 

She lay in the dark for a moment before she knew that she wasn’t going to be able to do this, to go to sleep like this. She nudged him. “Hey. Bellamy. _Hey_." She jabbed him in the back, and he grunted. “Wake up. What can I do to make you not mad at me, and fix this stupid mess?”

“Let me sleep.” 

“I’m serious, Bellamy." She combed her fingers through the hair at the back of his head. "I don’t like it when we fight.”

He sighed, rolling onto his back. It was quiet for a minute, and it was like she could _hear_ him thinking. “I can’t take your money, Clarke.” 

“I get that. I get where you’re coming from. But can you see where _I’m_ coming from?”

He turned his head to look at her through the dark, propping himself up on his elbow after a beat. “Our money,” he started, and it was a question.

“It’s going to be eventually, isn’t it?” she said. “Our money. Our house, our—our kids.” She bit her lip, searching his face. “I’m it for you, right? That’s what you said my senior year. That I’m it for you, and you have to know that you’re it for me. _Our_ money.” 

Slowly, he nodded. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

“Yeah. Okay.” Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the dark, and she saw his soft, tired smile. “Our money," he repeated. She smiled, too. "I don’t know that I really to buy the shop, though. To be honest." He sighed. "It’s kind of a shithole. Just the thing with buying it was, I don’t know. I wanted to be a guy that’s good. The kind that you want to brag about, that you know is always going to be able to take care of his family.” 

“You don’t have to buy an auto body shop for that.” 

“I know. It was—” He shook his head. 

“Do you? Bellamy, if there’s one thing that I’m _absolutely certain_ about when it comes to you, it’s that you’re _always_ going to find a way to take care of your family. _Always_. It could be the freaking nuclear apocalypse, and you’d find a way to look after you family.” She stared at him. 

He leaned in, and she touched his cheek. He kissed her palm. “Our family,” he said. 

She nodded. “Our family,” she agreed. She slipped her fingers into his hair, and smiled at him. “My kids are always going to be able to count on their dad, Bell. I know it.” 

“Yeah,” he breathed, and his voice was rough, open. 

She kissed him, pressing her forehead to his. “Seriously, though,” she whispered. “I can see it now. You with a baby strapped to your chest while you bash in a zombie’s head with the butt of a gun.” She grinned, and he started to laugh, to shake his head at her, kissing her despite her grin. “I’ll be there, too, of course,” she added. “To cheer you on.”

“Sure, babe. Let’s pretend you won’t be chopping off heads with a machete.” 

She laughed, and he stole a quick, sweet kiss. 

“So. How many of these kids are we going to have?” 

“I don’t know.” She tucked a hand under her cheek. “I always thought I’d have one, or two if the first one turns out okay. I like the idea of my kid having a sibling.”

He nodded. “Now I’m not great at math, so correct me if I’m wrong, but, well, I figured I’d have about a dozen or so, which I _think_ means we compromise at _six_ , right?” 

She snorted. “Nice try.” 

“What? Is that not the right math? Is it seven? Should we have seven?” He covered her mouth with his before she was able to answer, and when she tried to draw away, protesting that this wasn’t _The Sound of Music_ , and she wasn’t about to pop out _seven_ _children_ , he grinned against the corner of her mouth, and slipped his hands between them. 

She squealed when his fingers thrummed her sides, tickling her. 

“What’s that, Clarke? You want to have seven children with me? Really?” 

“Fine! Fine!” she cried, swatting at his hands. “ _Three_! We can have three!” He paused his assault, looming over her with that stupid, shit-eating grin on his face. She caught her breath, shaking her head at him. “Four, _possibly_ ,” she said. “If you’re really nice to me.” 

He kissed her. “I can be nice.” 

“Doubtful.” 

He deepened the kiss, and she melted into the mattress, clinging to him. How long had it been since they’d kissed like this? Kissed until her breath came short, until her toes curled, and her heart picked up at the rush of sweet, heady warmth that rose in her belly.

She felt him grow hard against her thigh, and she whispered his name. 

He shifted up slightly, hiking up her nightgown. 

She lifted her hips for him to tug off her underwear, leaning up to tug on his boxers, and pulling on his arm when it looked like he was about to duck his head between her legs. “Inside me,” she told him, and he nodded before he dropped a kiss the side of her knee, to her nipple through the material of her nightgown, to her lips. 

She grazed her hand up in his back, curling her fingers in his hair when he pushed in. 

It was slow, soft. 

He kicked off the sheets after, and they lay in the quiet for a moment, cooling off. 

“I’d have an army of children with you, Bellamy Blake,” she whispered. She reached up, touching the back of her hand to his cheek, and he kissed her fingers, smiled. 

She sat up with a sigh, and pulled her nightgown up; he’d gotten it down earlier, sucking red hickeys to the top of one breast, and the underside of the other. She went to the bathroom, returning to find that he was on his side, and looked to have drifted off already. 

She climbed into the bed, and meant to curl up against his back. 

He didn’t give her the chance to do it on her own. 

He reached for her sleepily, turning to tug her nightgown back down again before he settled on his side, and pulled her into his back so that she spooned him, so that her bare breasts pressed into his bare back. She smiled, wrapping an arm around him. 

She learned eventually that he called up Octavia the very next day. 

He didn't propose until June. 

“He made me go to _seven_ different stores with him on _three_ different days,” Octavia said, and Clarke smiled, twirling her ring around her finger. She liked everything about the story, that he’d marched right out to get a ring, that he’d taken forever to pick it out, that his hands were trembling a little when he opened the box, and asked.

Like there was a possibility that she’d say no. 

He was ridiculous, and she loved him, and they married on his mother’s birthday in April. 

\--- 

It took years, but eventually Bellamy opened a shop with Miller in the town where Harper grew up. 

It was only an hour from the city, and it was cheap real estate. 

Harper’s father owned a store in town, and was happy to guide them through the process, the paperwork. For a while, Bellamy was stressed about every little thing; it wasn’t _easy_ to start a business. But he was good at his job, and Miller was, too, and the money started to come in eventually. The shop wasn’t going to go under. 

They decided to try for a baby. 

Or that was what Clarke thought they were going to do; they were going to _try_. It was going to take a while, right? No. Wrong. In less than a month, she was knocked up. 

She was stunned, and Octavia thought it was hilarious. “You should’ve known that my brother means business when it comes to babies,” she said, laughing. Bellamy _was_ pleased with himself, telling the amused ultrasound technician that they started to try in August, and got it right immediately. Idiot.

Clarke cried when she saw their baby on the screen that very first time. 

She was _pregnant_. There was a baby inside her, hanging out. 

Bellamy lay his head on her stomach that night, asking the baby how her day was going, and did she enjoy the burrito that Mommy ate for lunch, telling her that she was very photogenic, but that wasn’t a surprise to anyone because “you don’t know it yet, Baby, but your parents are ridiculously attractive.” 

“How do you know it’s a girl?” Clarke asked, stroking his hair.

“Baby,” he said. “If you’re a girl, please wiggle loudly.” 

Clarke snorted. “I hate to break it to you, but think it’s going to be a while before she’s able to wiggle loudly enough for you to hear. I’m sure she’s trying very hard, though.” 

“Good job, Baby,” Bellamy said. “Good wiggling. Keep it up.” 

He talked to the baby constantly, and liked to touch her belly a lot. 

To press his cheek to her tummy in bed, to brush a hand over her belly when she passed him in the bathroom in the morning. To drop to his knees in the kitchen, nudge up her blouse with his nose, and kiss her stomach, murmuring to the baby. To rest a hand on her stomach while they were on the sofa, watching TV. 

It was like he couldn’t resist, couldn’t _not_ touch her stomach. 

They went to the store, and he stood at her side while they argued over cereal, keeping an arm loosely around her waist, and resting his hand over the slight, _slight_ curve of her belly. Some random woman passed them in the aisle, and Clarke saw her gaze flicker to them, to Bellamy’s hand, and saw the fond, indulgent smile. 

Was it really that obvious? 

Bellamy kissed the side of Clarke’s head, rubbing her belly softly before he drew away, and she knew it was. It made her smile. The baby wasn’t obvious. Bellamy was, and, honestly, she loved it. Loved him, and how much he loved their plum-sized, unborn baby. 

The weather grew warm, and Clarke grew bigger.

Bellamy was right. The baby was a girl. 

She was seven months along when she decided to treat herself to a fancy, therapeutic bath with those fancy, therapeutic soaps that Monty gave her. She managed to draw the bath, and got herself into the tub, and it was nice. Therapeutic. But they were going to dinner to celebrate Raven’s engagement, and she wanted to shave her legs. 

That was when she hit a roadblock. She tried, but.

The moment she heard him arrive home, she hollered. “Bellamy! Bellamy! _Bellamy_!” 

“What?” He flew into the bathroom in a panic. 

She smiled, and he sighed, shaking his head at her. There was grease on his forearm from work, and his hair was sticking up on the side with sweat, and she was tempted to ask him to join her in the bath. No. They were supposed to be at dinner in an hour, and there were things to do. “I need your help.” 

“Go on,” he said. 

He turned out to be good at shaving, but that made sense. He practiced on his face a lot. 

She leaned against the back of the tub with a towel under her head, and her legs stuck up for Bellamy to shave. He put lotion on them after her bath, and painted her toenails Candy Pink to match the dress that she’d bought for the night. “What would I do without you?” she asked. 

“Have hairy legs, and boring nails,” he replied.

“Clearly, I’d never survive.” 

He kissed her belly, and rose up to kiss her mouth. “Good thing you’re stuck with me.” 

\--- 

They found the book in the Barnes & Noble where they stopped in for Clarke to pee.

It was on display at the front of the store. 

“That’s not our Monroe, is it?” Octavia said, snatching it up when she saw that the author was Monroe Cunningham. She flipped through a few pages, and her eyes went wide. “It _is_ our Monroe! She wrote a book! I think it’s an autobiography, or something. Ooh, it is.”

“Great,” Clarke said. “I have to pee.” 

She waddled off, returning five minutes later to find Octavia where she left her. 

“Is it any good?” she asked. 

Octavia looked up from the book with a big, scary grin. “We’re in it.” 

“We are not.” 

“We are! Look.” She ushered Clarke into her side, showing her, and it was true. The book was mostly about her time in Australia, but she talked about her childhood in the beginning, and various childhood friends, including Clarke Griffin, and Octavia Blake. 

“I can’t tell if she likes us or not,” Clarke said. 

“Can anybody ever _really_ tell what Monroe is thinking?” 

Octavia wanted to buy the book, and she continued to read while Clarke drove the rest of the way into their old, beloved hometown. She parked the car at the end of the street, telling Octavia to put a bookmark in it. “This was your idea, O,” she said. “Chop, chop.” 

From the back of the car, Andromeda barked to remind them that she was displeased. 

They clambered from the car, putting Andromeda on a leash. Octavia brought the book, of course, and they headed up the street to the closest of the houses that were for sale. 

It was strange, returning to Octavia’s neighborhood.

Clarke hadn’t been back in _years_. 

Her mother lived in the city now, dating a D.A. that she used to claim to hate, and her father had moved to D.C. two years ago. The tiny little town her parents had moved Clarke to when she was a little girl hadn’t been her home in years, but it might be again. 

It was something to consider at least. 

They lived in the apartment above Bellamy’s shop right now, but they wanted to buy a house before the baby came. It was Octavia’s idea to look at several new houses that were for sale in their own old, sleepy town, which wasn’t too far away from home now. 

“It’d be fun for your kids to grow up where we grew up,” she said. 

But it was clear as soon as they stepped from the car that this neighborhood wasn’t the neighborhood that they grew up in. Octavia was dismayed. “What is this?” she said. “Suburbia? Is there a neighborhood watch? Is Stacy’s mom going to pop up from behind a bush, and make me drink a Dr. Pepper?” 

Clarke snorted. “There was a neighborhood watch in my old neighborhood.” 

“Not in mine,” Octavia said.

“Neighborhood watches are a _good_ thing, you know.” 

“Where are the trees? Where are kids supposed to play flashlight tag? Or go sledding?” 

“I think there’s a playground up that way,” Clarke said. 

“It’s like we’ve walked into a terrible alternate universe. It’s fucked up.” 

“I think the word you want is _gentrified_ ,” Clarke replied. 

Octavia humphed. 

She was horrified when they passed the lake that Bellamy used to fish in, that he taught _them_ to fish in, and saw there was a fence up, and a booth with a sign that claimed to charge for admission. “It’s a lake!” she cried. “It’s a hole in the ground with water in it!” 

“The houses are nice,” Clarke said, smirking.

“They’re _wrong_ ,” Octavia said, and she glared at a large, boxy pastel house.

They hadn’t been in a single one yet, but they looked nice on the outside, and the papers that Clarke picked up in the little plastic boxes outside them advertised natural lighting, granite countertops, and spacious bathrooms, bragging about the excellent school system. 

“You know _you_ were the one that wanted us to look at these houses.” 

“That was before I realized what I was suggesting.” 

“Fox told you that these new houses for sale were part of a new fancy development. Did you really think things were going to be exactly the same as when we were kids?” 

“Yes, but it doesn’t matter now. My niece cannot be raised in this hell.” 

Clarke smiled, and shook her head. 

“Come on,” Octavia said. 

The woods that they used to play in when they were children remained at the back of the neighborhood, and Octavia made a beeline for them. Andromeda began to tug on the leash in excitement, and Clarke handed her leash to Octavia before her crazy, enthusiastic dog dragged her off to her death. 

The woods were quiet, and they made their way easily to the creek. 

Here, at least, things were the same. 

“You could always move back to the city,” Octavia said, elbowing her. “I miss you.” 

“It’d be too long of a commute for Bellamy,” Clarke said. 

Octavia sighed. “I suppose. But you can’t live in this place. Wouldn’t it make you sad? It’s too different. It’s not home anymore. It’d make _me_ sad if you lived here now.” 

“Home’s where Bellamy is,” Clarke replied. 

“I’m going to pretend you aren’t really that sappy, and you didn’t really say that.” 

Clarke stuck her tongue out at her. 

“But, seriously, you know I’m going to end up wherever you guys end up, which means you can’t pick this sham. Not that I’m putting a ring on it soon, or popping out a munchkin either. Eventually, I’ll be all about a mini-Lincoln, or another fabulous me. But not yet. The next person who asks me about that is getting punched in the dick.” 

“I think you’ve made your feelings clear on that, yes,” Clarke said, smiling. 

They passed the tree that was their favorite to climb when they were little. The branches were low, and they were thick, sturdy; Clarke felt a rush of nostalgia at the sight of the tree. It made her certain that she didn’t want to raise her kids in the city. She loved it, but she wanted her kids to have their own special, secret tree to climb. 

If that meant a house in Harper’s even smaller, even quieter town, that was fine. 

She knew it was what Bellamy wanted anyway; it’d be good for his business for them to live in the town where his shop was. Plus, the elderly art teacher at local high school planned to retire soon, and Harper agreed to help Clarke snap up the job if she wanted it.

“Can you believe that Monroe wrote a _book_?” Octavia asked. “That we’re _in_ it?”

Clarke laughed. “Barely.” 

“Let’s re-read my favorite Clarke passage.” 

“Let’s not.” 

Octavia went immediately to the page she wanted, and cleared her throat. 

 _Clarke wasn’t among our louder, more outrageous classmates, but she was bold in that way that made you envy her, knowing that she was always going to go after what she wanted, and she was always going to get it. Fox dared Clarke to kiss Octavia’s brother at the party, and she marched up to him without a thought, planting a kiss on his lips._

Octavia paused. “Such imagery.”

“Shut up.”

_I think every single girl at the party was a little in love with Octavia’s brother, who was seventeen, gorgeous, and as utterly, heartbreakingly unattainable as our favorite teenage, television heartthrobs. But if fortune favors the bold, Clarke was as fortunate as they come. Naturally, she grew up to marry Octavia’s brother, and isn’t that the dream? To marry your best friend’s big brother?_

“Then she talks about herself for a while,” Octavia said. “Blah, blah, blah.”

She closed the book with a thwack.

Clarke smiled. “That’s the last she mentions us, isn’t it?”

“Unfortunately. Our lives would make a much better story than this existential, hipster stuff. I should write a book. If she can write one, I can. I mean, I have a _personality_ , which means I’ve already got a leg up on her.”

“It looks like her book’s won an award, or something,” Clarke said. 

“Do you know what my book is going to be about?” Octavia went on. “It’s going to be an intense sci-fi thriller about when the machines take over. Seriously. I read that some teenage nerd, like, actually created artificial intelligence, and it’s a lady, and he’s named it, and everything. Neo warned us about this, Clarke.” 

Clarke rubbed her belly. _Your auntie is silly, isn’t she?_

Monroe’s book was long, and slightly existential. Boring. But she’d gotten it right when she’d said it was the dream, marrying your best friend’s big brother. It was, wasn’t it? 

She didn’t know about that always getting what she wanted thing, but.

She’d gotten what mattered the most.

The banks of the creek began to grow rocky, uneven, and Octavia grabbed Clarke’s hand.

**\---**

_Hold on, darling,_  
_This body is yours,_  
_This body is yours and mine._  
_Well, hold on, my darling._  
_This mess was yours,_  
_Now your mess is mine._


End file.
